


Prepositions

by Amanitus



Series: Flowers of Evil [2]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Banter, Belligerent Sexual Tension, Blood Kink, Bloodplay, Canon Universe, Chess Metaphors, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, During Canon, Eventual Smut, Historical References, I hate spoilers but there's smut okay trust me, Kuroshitsuji: Book of Murder, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Mild Arthur/Ciel, Mild Gore, Mind Games, More snarkflirt yay, Passive Aggressive Tea-Drinking, Porn With Plot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Psychological Warfare, Sexual Content, Shota, Size Difference, Size Kink, Slow Burn, dubious everything, emotionally inept Sebastian, maybe some kissing too if Ciel is lucky
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 18:47:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 20
Words: 153,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22870474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amanitus/pseuds/Amanitus
Summary: He did not plan to keep the boy balanced on this high-wire of anxiety, not indefinitely; just until the icy light of irritation in that blue eye had softened into a hesitant question. Or a command; and that was how the earl would proceed, one way or the other.The demon expected the latter.The aftermath of the Circus fiasco has left the Phantomhive name in doubt.The Queen has set her Watchdog a test, and Ciel must scrape his scattered wits together if he is to have any chance of surviving. As he prepares to host a murderous gathering at Phantomhive Manor, the earl will need the assistance of every one of his allies.His life is at stake, but the game he has begun with his demon is beginning to collapse out of his control.Ciel would do almost anything to show Sebastian who has the upper hand.If only he was sure of it himself.
Relationships: Sebastian Michaelis/Ciel Phantomhive
Series: Flowers of Evil [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1644034
Comments: 689
Kudos: 546





	1. circum {around}

**Author's Note:**

> This IS a sequel series to [Valentine's Eve](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22592410?view_full_work=true), so this one will make more sense if it's read in order. This only exists because you all enjoyed that first one-- *stern voice* so I hope you're happy with yourselves.
> 
> Familiarity with the Phantomhive Manor Murders manga arc will definitely make this one simpler to understand, too. I've named each chapter for a different Latin preposition, following the flux of this shifting dance between the master and the servant. 
> 
> Comments are always always welcomed with delight!
> 
> On with the show~

It was only a modest tap at the study door, but Ciel glared at the sound. ‘I _told_ you I’m busy.’ He didn’t raise his head. ‘Why don’t you go and play a nice game with Finny? I’m sure he’s run out of roses to kill.’

‘Oh dear, sir.’ Sebastian closed the door behind him as he entered. ‘I suspect that would be entirely inappropriate. If you are no longer in the mood for lemon tart, however--’

Ciel straightened in his chair, and then tried not to look as though he’d straightened. He leaned back slowly. Folded his hands on the desk. ‘It’s fine,’ he said. He glanced at the butler’s trolley. ‘I thought you were bloody Soma coming to bother me again. Forty-two rooms and you’d _think_ he’d find a way to entertain himself.’

‘The Prince is only a very young man, my lord. His interest wanders easily.’ Sebastian set down the tea-tray, and his gaze moved to the half-finished game of Patience laid out on the desk. ‘I see you are hard at work, sir.’

Ciel pulled the plate of lemon tart towards himself with a frown. ‘I finished reviewing the accounts half an hour ago.’ It came out too defensively, and it would not have gone unnoticed. Very little did.

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Sebastian smoothly. Nothing-words, from his nothing-tongue.

The butler poured tea, his hands poised neatly.

The lemon tart was good but Ciel barely tasted it. 

It was cold. It was February. It was a Tuesday. It was five days since the demon had pinned him writhing in his bed and tormented him to pleasure with that wicked mouth, that fine mouth now set composedly as Sebastian paused over the sugar-pot.

Ciel sipped his tea thoughtfully. Nothing had changed, really. That much was a relief; he hadn’t wanted things to change. He’d dreaded that something tangible would move now, in the mornings, between the butler’s gloved fingers and his own bare skin; a different electricity: a sort of gentleness. Or an air of triumph. Either would be torment.

No need for apprehension, though; Sebastian’s movements were still precise. More precise than ever. He knotted carefully; he combed smoothly. He didn’t linger near the buttons.

And this morning, when his master’s state had been indubitably _inflamed,_ the butler kept his glance averted. Ciel had gritted his teeth, quick small breaths until the shorts were fastened, and wondered how many days the beast intended to torment him.

He hadn’t wanted things to change. He hadn’t expected they would stay the same.

‘The Prince desires to know if my lord will be free for a game of chess after lunch.’ Lightly, from beside the fireplace.

‘Tell the Prince it isn’t my decision,’ said Ciel. He put the tea-cup down. ‘My schedule relies upon my studies. My studies are organised by my butler. My butler is yet to tell me what the afternoon’s duties involve, ergo: Prince Soma can sod off and bother you about it.’

‘As you please, young master.’ Sebastian was doing something arcane and noisy with the coal bucket. ‘I shall inform His Highness that my lord is incapable of taking responsibility for his own management, and must exist at the mercy of his butler’s efficiency.’

Ciel narrowed his eyes. ‘That’s not what I said.’ 

‘You will be free between two o’clock and two forty-five, sir.’

He huffed around his cake-fork. ‘Good Heavens, don’t tell him that. Just say I’m studying or something. Make up a story. I’ve always found you to be proficient at formulating nonsense.’

Sebastian straightened at the fireside, brushing coal-dust from his white gloves. ‘You honour me, sir.’ His mouth smiled quietly. His eyes did not.

‘I don’t suppose Agni mentioned when they plan on leaving again.’

‘I believe the Prince intends to stay with you for the remainder of winter, sir.’ It could have been a shrug, that barely perceptible shift of the demon’s shoulders.

Ciel stifled a groan against the rim of his cup. ‘I don’t have time for this,’ he said. ‘None of this.’ With a general sweeping wave of his hand. Which was unfair, because it was really only Prince Soma who was causing him any irritation. 

Prince Soma, and Sebastian.

Not that Ciel had wanted anything to change between them. But--

He frowned across the cake plate at his card game. And moved, half absently. Nine of hearts onto ten of spades.

This state of existence with Sebastian was more than a simple return to order. This was not the natural balance of things. This was trying not to squirm in his seat at the dinner table, and the butler’s looks like little darts of fire through his body, and the type of silence you get when everybody has just finished talking at once and nobody is prepared to open their mouth again. Not awkwardness, no. Awkwardness was to this what a dewdrop is to a downpour.

Ciel thought about it often, the feel of the demon’s mouth in the dark. Quite often. Almost continuously. 

He re-crossed his legs beneath the desk.

‘I have allowed the Prince to set up a game of cricket in the hallway. I trust this will not inconvenience you, sir.’

‘Fine.’ Ciel raised his head. ‘Cricket? In the hallway?’

‘It was either there or the conservatory, my lord, and according to my calculations, re-painting two walls will be considerably less costly than replacing sixty-four panes of glass.’

‘Fine.’ He leaned his chin on his fist, exhausted.

Next time Sebastian dared touch him he would order the beast to stop, of course. 

If a next time were to happen.

The demon was not satisfied, surely? Just what his appetites might be, his expectations--

Ciel found his glance straying, during the day, towards Sebastian’s trousers as the butler moved; serving at the table, at his chair; kneeling at the bathtub. He thought he saw a swell sometimes, restless under the black wool, although the demon’s pale fine-boned face was always calm. 

He glanced now. The butler turned his head a fraction as though he felt the sweep of it across his back, and his eyes met Ciel’s. The merest hint of an arch in those delicate dark brows; a question. 

_Nothing_ , said Ciel. Silently. _I don’t want anything. Obviously_.

Yesterday, he’d spent the whole morning frowning over a stack of Funtom accounts, correcting his own miscalculations with an irritated smudge of blue ink. His tea had gone cold at his elbow. It all came down to an _if_ , in the end. If he were to ring the bell. Call for his butler. Order him to kneel. Push himself into the breathless hot relief of Sebastian’s mouth--

He had pleasured himself at his office chair, yesterday, knuckles grazing against the heavy oak desk. 

And again in his darkened bedroom last night. 

The demon likely knew. 

The earl was beyond caring.

_Enough._

But Ciel was not going to say it.

‘Perhaps if this rain were to ease,’ he said thoughtfully, instead, and picked up his tea-cup. ‘Then the Prince could amuse himself out of doors. Tennis, perhaps.’

‘Is that how the young sons of nobility amuse themselves in their country houses, sir?’ The butler’s voice was perfectly civil.

‘I wouldn’t know,’ Ciel said coldly. ‘I can’t remember.’

To ask for it was unthinkable. To wait, to be worn down was getting painful.

********************

The young master was sulking badly, of course, but Sebastian had been prepared for that. 

He did not plan to keep the boy balanced on this highwire of anxiety, not indefinitely; just until the icy light of irritation in that blue eye had softened into a hesitant question. Or a command; and that was how the earl would proceed, one way or the other. 

The demon expected the latter. It would only take three days, likely. Two.

His master was nowhere near softening yet. But the boy wriggled longingly at his desk, too restless to manage even a house of cards; he had resorted to playing Patience, of all things. 

Patience. Would his patience or his pride prevail, though?

Sebastian almost smiled as he ran his eye over the weekly expense book for the household, tucked in the pleasant silence of Tanaka’s office beside the store kitchen. The earl had been complaining about unnecessary spending last month, and it was left to the butler to manage things, of course.

_£19 12s on books & magazines from Mssrs Whitby, stationer’s _

Oh? The young master truly did get very bored in this tiresome weather. Or perhaps he was trying to keep his hectic little mind well-occupied. The earl turned his warm face towards the door whenever Sebastian entered now, as eager, as uncertain as a puppy who had caught sight of something tempting. It was entrancing to watch.

The high-heeled foot swinging awkwardly beneath the desk.

Two days, at the very most.

_£26 5s on Spode ‘Canton’ design platter and plates (replacement- breakage)_

Disgraceful. Mey-rin cost more to keep than her yearly wage was even worth. Perhaps it was time for another staff meeting on the virtues of efficiency and frugality. 

_£74 on steak knives from William Chawner, silversmith (replacement- lost and unaccounted for)_

Well, that had been entirely justified. He could hardly pull the knives out afterwards and simply wipe off the blood. 

Sebastian closed the note-book.

He wasn’t in the mood for paperwork, actually. If he didn’t know better, he’d almost think this absent-mindedness was distraction. 

Two days. 

Tomorrow, perhaps.

*********************

Wednesday was a stormy slushy day; the vile upset weather of late winter. Early spring. Bad, anyhow. 

Ciel didn’t want to get out of bed at all. It would be nicer to read right here, a comfortable murderous story; something with a haunted castle and bats and the ghost of a nun. 

He didn’t relish the thought of sitting behind his desk today.

_Enough._

But Sebastian was clapping his gloved hands sharply at the bedside, _thap thap thap_ , and Ciel struggled upright. 

‘Your tea this morning is a fine Assam, my lord, with--’

‘Mhm.’ Not a pleased noise. ‘I thought you were going to get some Darjeeling in this month.’ Ciel’s neck was stiff. And so was his cock beneath the covers, but he ignored it; most things die, sooner or later, if ignored for long enough.

‘The shipment of the season’s first flush Darjeeling had been delayed by bad weather, sir.’

‘Does the whole world stop for a storm?’ He gave a small and irritated sniff.

‘For a monsoon, my lord? Inevitably.’

Of course; it was summer somewhere, wasn’t it. The rain was falling there, too, but loud and warm and steaming; on rice fields, on swollen rivers. On the other side of the world.

In England there was only mud.

‘Breakfast is porridge with almonds and honey, and--’

‘ _Oats_.’ Ciel took the bowl and stuck his spoon with a slap. ‘I don’t suppose you could have scraped together a few scones in your spare time.’

‘Oh dear, sir.’ There was a sudden soft lilt in Sebastian’s voice beside him. ‘The baby is not happy with his porridge.’

Ciel felt himself colour suddenly, blazingly.

He kept his eyes fixed on the slow curl of steam from the tray across his lap. The butler’s bland mask of perfection was frequently an irritation, but there was always a danger when his voice settled like that, gently.

‘Watch your manners,’ Ciel said. He cleared his throat. ‘Now is not the time for your insolence.’

‘Apologies, my lord,’ said Sebastian, and he paused, milk-jug in hand; ‘if it is suitable for you, I shall re-schedule it for Friday evening.’

Ciel put down his spoon. Looked at it, and picked it up again. Sebastian was baiting him as indubitably, as de _lib_ erately as he was currently pouring the tea. The demon did not fear punishment. He thought himself beyond anybody’s power but his own. If there was something that could wipe the sharp superiority from that mocking look of his--

This, this was infuriating. Humiliating that it only took a word, a comment from a servant to bring his master to this point-- tense, quick-breathing. Furious. Helpless.

Ciel breathed out, steadying his thoughts. 

‘Is Soma awake yet?’

‘I saw Agni preparing his breakfast not long ago, sir.’

‘Tell him I’ll meet him in the purple drawing room for a game of whist.’

‘I believe you had an essay to complete on the early Ottoman Empire, my lord.’

‘I’m not in the mood.’

‘I must protest, sir.’ Sebastian passed him the tea-cup with steady hands. ‘You are making very little headway with your studies as it is. One’s schedule is not dependent upon one’s mood, young master.’

‘No?’ Ciel looked at him. ‘Perhaps I ought to take responsibility for my own management.’

‘If you have a complaint about my service, young master, it would be much more efficient to simply explain it.’ The composure of those heavy-lidded eyes.

‘Oats,’ said Ciel, and he handed back the bowl, half-full. ‘No more oats.’

‘Understood, my lord.’ The demon took the porridge bowl carefully, as though it was something small and fragile and putridly decaying, and put it back on the trolley. And cleared his throat. ‘I see you were reading in bed last night.’ 

Not a very difficult assumption to jump to. Sebastian fancied himself as something clever, but the magazines were still heaped there on the marble commode.

‘The story was mildly entertaining.’ The story was bloody brilliant, actually, and Ciel had been up until the hall-clock struck half eleven.

‘Indeed.’ A purr of disapproval. ‘It is hardly fine literature, my lord.’ 

Sometimes the butler’s rich voice sounded positively sickening.

‘I wanted to find out what happened in the end.’

‘I believe you have already read it twice, sir.’

‘Yes.’ Coolly. Ciel drained his tea-cup. ‘I knew what was coming. This time I wanted to see how it was done. It was a murder mystery, and the clues were all there. I wanted to understand how the writer managed to put everything in the open without revealing anything at all.’ He handed back the tea-cup. ‘A game, of sorts.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian tipped his sleek head. ‘Do you ever tire of games, sir?’ 

Unusual, a direct question from that devious mouth. That circuitous mind. Ciel looked at him, at the demon’s slow-blinking dark-lashed eyes, the beautiful lips held tightly.

No truce. No gentleness. There was only one answer expected, and one given.

‘Of course not.’ 

‘I’m glad to hear it, sir.’ 

The demon’s eyes caught fire quietly before he turned away. 

Ciel sank his head back into his heaped-up pillows, and he closed his eyes. Still playing, always. Still stepping out, cool and cautious, onto glistening ice.

Still hot as a roasting chestnut between his legs. If his traitorous body would only settle, he’d be saved another layer of wounded pride this morning. 

The vexatious arousal didn’t go anywhere, though, and he sat uneasily waiting as Sebastian laid his suit out on the bed.

‘There has been no news yet from Her Majesty concerning your recent report, sir. The dissolution of the Noah’s Ark Circus must have been proof enough of your success.’

‘I suppose.’ Non-committal. Ciel wriggled slowly under the blanket. ‘It would be rather convenient if there was a lull in crime over Easter, though. I’m struggling to summon enthusiasm for another visit to the East End.’

The stinking mud and pale peaking faces like little human rats.

_Enough._

‘Tsk.’ The butler’s disapproval was sharp as he shook out his master’s jacket. ‘Your trepidation is disappointing in one who professes to bear the Phantomhive name, sir.’ And the glitter in his narrowed smiling eyes was quite unpleasant. ‘Up and out, please, sir. We are seven minutes behind, this morning.’

Well. That was that. Ciel crawled out of bed, his toes already cold, and looked at the window steadily. This is how the Christian martyrs must have felt, dragged out onto the blood-soaked sand of the Coliseum. The lions’ mouths still wet with somebody else’s blood. The last dying prayers.

Melodrama, yes. But the sacrilege was vaguely pleasing, and Ciel almost relaxed. 

Not quite, though. Not the thing he was really hoping would relax.

And no hope of hiding, again, _again_ , as Sebastian swept his nightgown off and held his muslin drawers out, waiting. No better when Ciel stepped into them. The thing twitched helplessly, brushed by the gloved fingers. But it might have been manageable after all, if the demon hadn’t turned his head. 

It was only a look, that quick dart of a look, and those fine brows arching silently. Always a question. Always an if, with him.

_Enough._

Ciel swallowed. ‘Sebastian.’

‘Sir?’ Innocent as a newborn lamb in a boxful of puppies on the edge of a precipice.

‘Take care of this,’ Ciel said. 

And he looked away. He didn’t need to see the look on Sebastian’s face. It would be a smirk. It would be unbearable. 

‘Of course, my lord.’ It was said lightly, without inflection. And then Sebastian’s brisk hand, a professional grip, and Ciel leaned back against his bed and clung to the covers. 

Better to give an order than make a request, surely.

He turned his face to the window. He winced. Smooth and quick and pleasant, the demon’s movements over his heated cock, but Ciel bit his lip. 

_Not enough._

Permission is acceptance. Admission is weakness. Submission is worse. What was this?

Long fingers, wrapped loosely. Still stronger than his own. Impersonal as a neatly folded napkin. 

He breathed in, shivered.

Hard to know move from counter-move, now. Win from loss. The demon must desire something from him, more than shame and flinching, more than gasps dragged forth unwillingly, or the brief sating of a midnight hunger. More than need.

He could never hope to discomfit the beast as thoroughly as he had been himself. As he still was. But Sebastian had responded, hadn't he? To his master’s hand against his body, cornered on the staircase. The demon was willing to be stirred.

As for what Ciel was willing to give, though, ah~

Sebastian’s grip tightened and he winced again.

Hard to know pain from comfort, now. Master from servant. There was no satisfaction. They were circling, around, around, and even when they met-- even now-- now--

He came in silence, his eyes closed against the pale winter glare.

There was no satisfaction. 

The demon sat back on his heels, and when Ciel dared a glance, Sebastian was stripping off his soiled glove slowly, finger by finger, tugging until the damp white cotton slipped off and the demon’s bare right hand curled absently. Long fingers, bone-thin. Unmarred white skin, the delicate tint of antique ivory, and his nails: black nails, trimmed neatly.

Ciel looked away again. Those fingers, raked like claws across his face. The searing agony of his wounded eye before the creature finally pulled him from his cage. Blinded, shaking. Powerful. Was that the last time the beast’s bare hands had touched his skin?

Oh, no. Of course. There was another time. Sebastian had plucked his master’s tooth out once with bare strong fingers, and left him with a mouthful of blood.

Ciel began to tie the waistband ribbon of his own drawers, clumsily, while Sebastian put on a clean glove from his breast pocket. The demon did not comment on the fact. 

And Ciel did not look at Sebastian again as his servant finished dressing him, and Sebastian left the room in silence.

********************

A quiet afternoon would have been a pleasant change. 

Ciel felt as though he possibly deserved it.

But they had unexpected visitors after lunch, and when the two Royal Butlers had finally been ushered out, Ciel stood at the drawing room window and looked out at the rainswept garden below. 

The Queen’s message had been polite, conciliatory, charming; warm as a grandmother to her favourite rascal. 

She clearly didn’t trust him. 

There was nagging uneasiness in his chest, like the aftermath of a mother’s scolding. How much was guilt, and how much resentment? 

He’d done his duty. He’d made his decisions. He had chosen to destroy Lord Kelvin’s house, with everyone inside it, and of course people would fail to understand. Anyone who hadn’t been there, hadn’t seen the perfect terrible blankness of the children’s faces, their empty eyes--

These things don’t look good in the newspaper. Children burnt alive. A circus troupe slaughtered. A peer of the realm shot through the chest by a thirteen-year-old boy. But he’d imagined the Queen might depend on him to make these decisions, the difficult ones that weighed heavy afterwards. The memories nobody else dared carry.

It was his job, wasn’t it?

‘A dinner party,’ Ciel said, turning from the cold glass with a frown. ‘By order of Her Majesty.’ 

‘Indeed, my lord.’ Better than an _I-told-you-so_ , but the demon’s eyes said it much more clearly anyhow. Sebastian had questioned him, too, about the burning of the house. The Watchdog had been sent to find the missing children, after all. Rescue them.

As if there is any rescuing from that. 

Ciel rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘This is going to take some organisation.’ 

‘No doubt, my lord.’ 

‘It will take the combined efforts of the entire household.’

‘Understood, sir.’

‘I suspect it is a trap.’

‘Very likely, sir.’ Sebastian raised his brows. ‘How do you intend to proceed?’

They looked at each other, slow and thoughtful, and the demon’s face was quite serious. Perhaps they would have to put this game of theirs on hold while the other, vaster game continued; step and feint, check and counter-check, the Watchdog and his work.

The Queen had no trust in him. She was testing the fidelity of her Aristocrat of Evil. There would be movement in the shadows. There would be death in his house.

‘I need to think,’ Ciel said. His eyes were gritty with exhaustion. ‘I need to think. Bring me some more tea.’

*************************

‘A party needs guests,’ the boy was saying. ‘A game needs players.’

Sebastian watched the deepening crease of his master’s smooth brow. The Earl of Phantomhive had been chastised like a little lapdog, and now he folded himself up in thought, a blank white envelope of a child, all turned inwards as he focused.

The boy was laying out a stack of linen notepaper on his desk. Pushing aside the deck of cards, the stack of magazines. Opening his ink-pot. Aligning his pen, and cleaning the steel nib.

Sebastian understood. It was what he did himself, with a busy day ahead. Preparation is everything. A seed must find a fertile mind.

He half-listened as the earl began to mark the names down.

What constitutes an appropriate gathering for an esteemed German guest? For an elegant assembly in a country house? For a scene of betrayal?

They would invite the opera singer, of course, and her director. The Arts always add a touch of culture to proceedings.

And the Queen’s Butler, Grey, because Her Majesty had commanded it, and they had no choice in the matter.

The diamond merchant and the shipping heir, because things would end badly. People would possibly die. And one of them might as well be a business competitor.

Lau, because he could be trusted to follow promptings; to suggest lightly, to steer the assembled party with deceptive simplicity. And Ran-mao, because her talent was formidable, and her decolletage useful.

And another. One more. Because they would need an observer; somebody who would note the details, record the proceedings. Justification. 

‘ _Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_?’ the boy murmured at his desk. 

From the fireplace, Sebastian smiled. His master was learning quickly. There would be no evidence against them this time, nothing that could unsettle Her Majesty’s mind on their account.

‘Who watches the Watchdog, my lord?’ He allowed his master an indulgent smile. ‘I imagine that would be my duty, sir.’

The boy sat back in his office chair, a small figure lost in the shadow of the dark buttoned leather wing-back, and he folded his slim little hands in front of him. One would never imagine such a chilly little personage would ever command a servant to pleasure him before morning tea.

He was really very charming when he tried to play at Grown-ups. 

‘No,’ the earl said. ‘Lord Grey will not play fair, I think, and we will be tested. I need you at the centre of this thing. We shall have to stay at least three steps ahead of everyone, the only ones who hold all the pieces. The only ones who know how the story ends.’

He was frowning at his desk, at the mess of books and magazines, and he leaned forward to pick up one of them. _Mrs Beeton’s Christmas Annual_. The words were bold. _A Study in Scarlet._

Oh, that look. That crease of concentration. The little lord has an _idea_.

‘And what sort of story do you intend to write, young master?’

‘A murder mystery,’ said the boy. He sat back slowly in his seat. ‘Of course.’

‘Ah.’ Fascinating. He was attempting to apply the structure of fiction to the treacherous stumbling mess of mortal reality. Always struggling for control, this stubborn master. Always scrabbling to hold fast to his pride, his sense of power. ‘I can only imagine you have a victim in mind, then.’

‘Yes,’ the boy said. He steepled his hands on his chest, a slow alignment. Tip to tip. ‘Yes. I rather think you’re going to enjoy this one.’

And suddenly the boy was smiling, a strange and breathtaking thing on that pointed small face. A rare terrible thing. 

When had his master ever looked at him with eyes like that?

‘Wonderful, sir.’ Sebastian breathed in slowly, and out again. ‘Please. Continue, if you would be so _very_ kind.’

*********************

Ciel wrote it all down, of course; two pages, tidy in blue. It was good to see his ideas in concrete form, more than a haze in his head. 

Good to watch Sebastian’s face as he read it. 

Had the demon believed there would be no punishment for his arrogance?

‘You understand the strategy, then.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Sebastian looked up from the paper. From the meticulous details of his own demise.

‘You can do it?’

‘Of course, my lord.’ 

‘You must not fail me.’

‘Young master.’ The butler’s voice was stiffened oddly. ‘I am capable.’ Perhaps it was his master’s doubt that sharpened him; perhaps it was the contents of Ciel’s plan. Perhaps a mix of both. That would be gratifying.

‘It is an opportunity not available to everyone,’ Ciel said, ‘having a demonic servant at their disposal. It would be foolish of me to miss this chance.’

‘No doubt, sir.’ Sebastian’s long eyes narrowed behind his sleepy lashes. 

‘This is why you’re here, after all.’ In case the creature had forgotten. In case there was ever a shadow of doubt who gave the orders here, and who obeyed.

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Sebastian, and he bowed. His smile could have shattered a champagne glass.

Ciel felt the shiver through his back, his legs. Satisfaction. ‘That’s settled, then,’ he said. 

*********************

It had been several centuries since he’d last been murdered.

Sebastian hissed, tucking the telephone receiver between ear and shoulder as he rummaged for his pencil.

It had been Scotland somewhere. Some grimy little backwater of a village, and he had been doing rather well on souls for months. Whisky-sodden age-smoked salt-rinded souls, sharp with petty vengeance and dripping with the most piquant venality. A smattering of adultery. Some rather tasty incest. A marinade of murder-- ah, that one had almost been memorable--

And then some bitch of a monk had tried to kill him. Had managed, actually, and left him stuck through the neck and dead for a full six minutes before he finally worked the arrow out and got to his feet and oh, the tonsured little prick had been green with horror.

 _That_ soul would have been ink-and-parchment, dry on the tongue and uneasy in the stomach. There was no point in devouring any but a sinner. His screams had been rather charming, though. Laboured breath. The crack of bone.

Death. Death, was it?

The young master had his whims, of course; his pride, his inevitable mortal compulsion to stir and twitch against the harness, and Sebastian was willing to grant him a little slack.

 _Death_ , though. 

It was a curiously needling punishment. Humiliating; controlling. Carefully orchestrated.

Perhaps he had underestimated his master’s latent ripple of sadism. The boy had always seemed more the masochistic type. 

And what a time to reveal it.

Sebastian sighed through the buzz of the crackly telephone line, the twitter of the dial tone and the operator’s nasal voice. 

‘Mr Carson,’ he said shortly when the greengrocer finally answered. ‘Michaelis here. It promises to be rather a large order next week; we are going to have guests.’

The earl’s plan was sound, actually; as tightly-plotted as one of the little mystery stories he was always mucking about with instead of studying.

‘A side of beef should do it. Are the quails back in stock yet?’

He would never tell his master such a thing. The boy’s self-confidence needed no further encouragement. 

‘Pickled? I do hope that was an attempt at humour, Mr Carson. _Pick_ led, at half a shilling a pound.’

He would not interfere, though. One must allow one’s prey a little room to move. It must be well-fed, content. 

‘Only if I have your assurance that the cocoa beans were fresh.’

Kept tender with nourishment. Malleable with delicate attention.

‘Yes, four pounds of the chocolate,’ Sebastian said, and put a careful tick against his shopping list. 

Softened. Sweetened.

You can lead a lamb to slaughter, but it is immeasurably simpler if there is chocolate involved.

‘No, make it six, I think.’ Sebastian smiled, and his gloved fingertip tapped the glossy black receiver. ‘My lord the Earl is very fond of cake.’

  
  



	2. ultra {beyond}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wasn't expect to work on the next chapter at all this week, but-- well. I did. Here it is.

‘What is wrong with you? You should be _excited_ about having visitors, Ciel. Your house is too quiet.’

Ciel started vaguely. ‘What?’ He looked up from his soup bowl and across the linen expanse of the dining table to his guest. And sighed. 

This was exactly why visitors were so tiresome, actually.

Did Soma always need to look so abominably earnest about things? 

‘I don’t see why.’ He shrugged.

Prince Soma shrugged back. ‘I do not understand why you are not _ecstatic_ to finally have something fun going on. Don’t you ever get tired of gloomy hallways and gloomy books and gloomy servants and gloomy _gloom_ iness?’

‘Mhm.’ Ciel pushed away his mushroom soup with a small glance over at Sebastian. The butler was intensely occupied with carving the lamb and did not raise his eyes from the dinner trolley, but he was clearly listening. ‘I must admit, I do have my moments.’

‘I am not surprised. All it ever does is rain here.’ The Prince leaned one elbow on the table with a sigh.

‘You can’t blame the weather for everything,’ said Ciel, with more bitterness than Soma had really earned.

Sebastian put down his carving knife, wiping his gloved hands with a thin smile of utter condescension. ‘Your plan will quite likely be successful, my lord.’ 

‘Of course it will,’ Ciel said sharply. ‘I didn’t ask for your opinion.’

‘You have been staring at an abstract point above the sideboard for two and half minutes now, young master.’ The butler turned to remove his master’s soup bowl from the table. ‘Since I am certain that you are already quite familiar with the wallpaper design, I feel safe in assuming that something is weighing upon your thoughts.’

‘No more than usual.’ Ciel leaned back in his chair with an air of chilly confidence that was not entirely genuine, and blinked down at the dinner plate Sebastian set in front of him. ‘You know how I feel about carrots,’ he muttered; ‘there had better be custard for dessert.’ 

Sebastian pretended not to hear, and Ciel closed his mouth tightly.

‘I cannot stand them either,’ said Prince Soma from across the table. ‘You are more than welcome to have some of this curry. Agni made plenty. It has almonds in it.’

Sebastian bowed to the Prince without a glance in Ciel’s direction. ‘I am afraid that my lord cannot abide even a trace of spiciness in his food, Your Highness.’ A wonder, almost, how effortlessly that warm voice could scatter such precise contempt. ‘His childish palette is still undeveloped, you see, and his preference is for bland and simple nursery food.’

‘That is untrue,’ Ciel said stiffly. ‘I am allowed to have my preferences.’

Sebastian bowed. ‘Indeed, sir. Custard, I think, sir.’

Ciel chased a pea around his plate silently, and did not look up.

He was hardly hungry, anyway. He was thinking.

He would manage this test of the Queen’s, he had no doubt of it, and he had time. Twelve days. But there were so many variables. So many players for this deadly dinner party he had planned. If even one of their guests reacted unexpectedly, questioned suspiciously--

It was a risk. Life was a risk, though. It involved a certain element of danger, certainly, but all the best games do.

Did his servant doubt him? Did Sebastian think his master was incapable of out-witting the Queen and her Royal Butler?

Better that the demon believe his anxiety was over the dinner party, anyhow. If he ever guessed the true reason, he would be insufferable.

Ciel poked the tip of his knife viciously at a slice of lamb, and began to saw it in half. 

He was managing things well, after all. He was keeping his head very clear. The Funtom Corporation had reported a record profit over Christmas, and he had completed another mission for Her Majesty with undoubted success. 

If the price of comprehensive victory is an occasional failure, it was no fault of his. Survival is the only measurable accomplishment. And he had survived. He was surviving. It had been a normal day, nearly, considering that he had been visited by Her Majesty’s Royal Butlers and given a neatly-worded reprimand and a thoroughly noxious order. 

Considering that after breakfast he had lowered himself enough to ask Sebastian to do _that_.

Not asked, no: commanded. But--

He was doing well, anyway. 

He was only tired, a vague unsettled fogginess as though he were peering at the world through a window, through a window smudged with his own winter breath. The day was hollow. None of it was real, not the morning's scalding memory of his butler’s gloved administrations, not the carrots on his plate or the glint of Soma’s golden earrings in the candlelight. 

He hadn’t felt alive for days, not properly. 

‘ _I_ am finished, anyhow.’ The Prince pushed away his empty plate in triumph and stood up. ‘You are so very slow, Ciel. Agni is making roshogulla for my dessert and it tastes so much better warm-- you should come down to the kitchen and we can share.’

‘I don’t visit my servants’ quarters,’ Ciel said coolly. 

‘But sugar syrup, Ciel!’

Sebastian bowed. ‘If you wish to eat your dumplings, Your Highness, I would suggest that you hurry down there. When last I saw, Bardroy was beginning on his second plateful.’

Ciel raised an eyebrow at his butler as the dining room door slammed closed behind the Prince’s panicked footsteps. ‘Efficiently managed.’

‘Never underestimate mortal greed, young master.’ Sebastian’s smile was blank as a dish of milk. ‘At least the house will be a little quieter when the Prince returns to London.’

Indeed. They couldn’t have Soma wandering around in the middle of the savage web they were about to weave inside Phantomhive Manor. ‘When are they going?’

‘Tomorrow afternoon.’

‘Good.’

‘I am not inclined to disagree, sir.’

Sebastian met his master’s gaze, an unexpected flash of consensus, and his eyes were cool and bright.

Ciel looked away. Steady, steady; a moment’s solidarity does not undo a day’s wary malice. 

But his breath was not steady, and he was flushing, because the demon’s quick bright look had caught him abruptly-- with heat, and a sharpness, a heat he hadn’t once felt beneath _that_ , Sebastian’s helpful hand this morning, that concise and empty gratification which had been worse than nothing at all.

Empty, because the butler had not looked at him. The mortification of admitting it. And the shame of needing it: desiring to be desired. The brief pleasure had been worth less than even a look. If it had been a different kind of touch; bare fingers warm across his body.

If it had been the feel of those fine lips under his own.

Ciel put down his knife and fork.

‘I’m finished.’

‘Not quite, my lord.’ Sebastian glanced at the plate of food, well-stirred but scarcely eaten. ‘I believe the word you are looking for is ‘bored.’ ’

‘Don’t correct me. I think I know my own mind.’

‘Indeed.’ The demon removed the plate. ‘It would be rather dangerous if you did not, my lord. To possess a mind one does not understand is something akin to sleeping beside a loaded weapon, I would imagine.’

Bland, quite bland, the tone of his rich voice.

‘As to that--’ Ciel narrowed his eyes. ‘I am justified in sleeping armed. If anything, the events of today only prove it.’ The butler did not reply, only paused at the table-edge and watched him with that still dark look. Ciel felt a ruffle of irritation brush through him. He didn’t need doubt from Sebastian, of all people. ‘Danger surrounds my house, my position, and we are about to invite it through the front door. We may not yet be precisely aware of the trap that awaits us, but it is certain that a threat will be made upon my life and those of my guests. I would be foolish to retire to bed without my pistol at hand.’

‘I understand that much, my lord,’ Sebastian said, and the twitch of his mouth was so quick Ciel nearly missed it. ‘I was not referring to your pistol, sir.’

The butler turned back to the dinner trolley, resettling the silver cloches onto their platters with the hushed striking clink of small bells, and Ciel twisted his napkin in silence. 

But the beast was right. He had done it, hadn’t he? Lain down to sleep beside the most dangerous thing he’d ever known. And never slept more soundly, or as safe. 

‘I know my own mind,’ Ciel said clearly, but even to his own ears there was a touch of disquiet. 

Sebastian bowed; and perhaps it was an answer. 

‘I assume you are ready for your dessert, sir.’

‘Of course.’ 

‘I shall fetch the baby his custard, then.’

And the demon was gone, soundless in the carpeted dining room, and had closed the door behind him before the furious blush could even mount above his master’s collar.

**************************

The earl might colour fetchingly at the slightest provocation, but he managed to eat his dish of custard with the closest thing to appetite that Sebastian had seen in several days. The boy had been barely eating this week, beyond his sweets and his perpetual cups of tea.

Sebastian might forbid it, at another time. He might be more rigorous in the enforcement of their mealtime rules. But this amused him, watching the shift of the fork through the untasted meat, and those pink lips, sugar-dusted, sucking a glaze of apricot jam from sticky fingertips.

His young master might endeavour to glut himself on pastries, but it would never work. He craved sweetness still.

The demon smiled as he fell into step behind the earl, quiet between the dining hall and the yellow drawing room.

‘Fetch Soma for a game of chess,’ the earl said as he placed himself beside the glow of the fire. ‘I need something simple to distract me this evening.’

‘As you please, my lord.’

His master’s arrogance would be amusing if it were not so deadly serious.

Sebastian listened from behind the earl’s chair as they played together, guest and host, prince and earl, the loud high voice of the older boy and the cold little comments of the younger.

‘It is _not_ a rook, it is a castle. I can see the turrets.’

‘It’s a bloody rook. Check.’

‘A rook is a bird. I have learned this word. A rookery is where crows live. This piece is not a bird, it is a castle like the little castle that sits on top of an elephant. In my country we call this piece an elephant. So it _must_ be called a castle.’ 

‘A rookery is for ravens, not for crows. I thought it was the bishops that were called elephants. You’re still in check.’

‘I will not call it a rook. This is foolishness.’

‘Tell him, Sebastian.’ Tiredly.

The butler bowed to his master’s guest. ‘Your Highness, the chess piece to which you are referring is indeed called a tower in many European languages. In many parts of India it is referred to as an elephant, although the name is in some countries used for the bishop.’ 

The earl could not hide his smug little satisfaction, of course. 

‘In English, however, we refer to this piece as a rook, Your Highness; not in reference to the bird, which is, as my lord has informed you, the common name for a raven, but from the Persian _rukh_ , meaning chariot. In ancient Persian warfare, the chariot was a heavy vehicle that could tear through an enemy's ranks. But it was not a flexible weapon, and remains an inflexible game piece despite its range.’

‘It is my favourite,’ said Prince Soma. ‘The little turrets are very charming. Which is your favourite piece, Ciel?’

‘The king, of course. Do you intend to save yours, or not?’

‘But the king is so completely _boring_. He just sits there, and all of his soldiers run around and do all the work for him. I think he is very selfish.’

‘I could not agree more entirely, Your Highness.’ Sebastian turned to look at his master. ‘We would be fascinated to hear why the king is your favourite, my lord.’

The boy turned to glare up at him from under the dark fall of his hair, chin propped on his fist. ‘Because there is no game without the king. It scarcely matters how much he appears to do, or not do. The army is at his command.’

‘He is not even the most powerful piece, sir.’ Sebastian tucked his hands slowly behind him. ‘I believe that title must belong to the queen, whose moves are unrestricted in any direction.’

The earl scoffed against his folded fingers. ‘Very little analogy to the real world, then. Our Queen must work invisibly, and makes no move herself.’ 

The boy must be in a vile mood to speak ill of his monarch, but there was no danger of being overheard here this evening, after all; he was alone with his guest, who had little care for the stolid royalty of Europe, and with his servant, who knew how to hold a careful silence.

Much of the time, anyhow.

‘You forget, my lord, that in the Persian game that piece is not called a Queen but a Counsellor. A Vizier, the power behind the throne; a leader of the army, who essays forth upon his king’s command. ’

‘Hmh.’ The earl’s face was steady. ‘And it is your favourite piece, I suppose.’

Sebastian permitted himself a smile. ‘Not quite, young master. I maintain an undisputed affection for the knight, sir.’

Prince Soma was frowning over his next move, deciding whether to sacrifice a bishop or a rook for his beleaguered white king.

The earl did not glance back at the board. Nor did the butler.

‘Why is the knight your favourite?’ his master asked.

‘It is unique amongst chess pieces, my lord.’ The boy was watching him closely, with that clear blue gaze of his, and Sebastian felt the challenge behind it. ‘Unlike a queen, it does not need an empty field to sweep through; it is able to leap over obstacles and move through crowds. It can turn sharp corners, and emerge unexpectedly. It is able to land on both the dark and light squares, unlike its narrower cousin, the bishop; and it shows strongest in a confined place, where confusion thickens the game and a straighter-moving piece can be of no help.’

The boy was chewing thoughtfully at the tip of his thumb. And tucked it back into his fist with an arch of his brows. ‘You like it because it moves crookedly in the dark.’

Sebastian felt the ravenous shiver through his blood. ‘Yes, sir.’ He smiled. ‘Precisely, sir.’

************************

Soma’s chess strategy was improving rapidly, actually. Ciel couldn’t pretend otherwise. The Prince’s problem was never a lack of intelligence, only a wandering mind, a childish jump from one idea to the next that left him unfocused on the task at hand.

Ciel disapproved of distraction. You either do the thing, or you don’t.

He turned back to the game board and ignored his butler.

‘Your move.’

But Soma had just noticed that the pattern of the brocade fabric on his chair looked exactly like a funny face with horns if you squint your eyes in _exactly_ the right way and tilt your head just a bit, no, not like that at all--

The earl sighed and rubbed his temples slowly. ‘Are you playing or not?’

‘I am. Of course I am. I am going to be so lonely when we go back to London. Agni has set up the tennis court for me, so I can play whenever I--’

‘Soma.’ Ciel looked at him. ‘The townhouse doesn't have a tennis court.’

‘Oh, no, but that room with all the maps was not being used for anything at all and I was sure you would not mind. It looks so much better as a tennis court.’

‘Just move your bloody queen before you lose her.’

‘All right. All _right_. I know what I am doing, Ciel.’

Soma lost his queen. 

Ciel sighed. ‘Another two minutes, and then Sebastian will call it. I refuse to chase your king around the board like a lame rabbit.’

Soma flopped sideways over the arm of his chair. ‘I am sorry, Ciel. It must be so much more fun for you to play with Sebastian than me.’

The fire crackled in the silence. Ciel did not turn to look at the demon. His chest felt hot.

‘I don’t play games with my butler,’ he said at last. 

He thought he heard a stifled noise from behind his chair.

‘Oh, but you must!’ said the Prince. ‘He knows so _very_ much about chess, I am sure he would be much better at it than I am. Oh, I did not even _see_ that pawn there. It is completely unfair. A little piece like this should not be able to threaten something like a king.’

‘My butler,’ Ciel said deliberately, ‘knows so _very_ much about a lot of things, but it doesn’t mean I have any intention of playing chess with one of my servants. That’s check and mate, Soma. I’m going up to bed.’

‘Oh, no, Ciel!’ A wail.

‘Pack up, Sebastian.’ The earl stood abruptly, ignoring his butler’s glance.

He heard the demon’s words, though, as Sebastian bent over the chess-board to set the little pieces straight on their painted squares. 

‘Checkmate,’ Sebastian said. ‘The word comes from the Persian.’ 

‘I know,’ said Ciel.

‘ _Shāh māt_ \--’ 

‘Good-night, Prince Soma.’

‘--meaning, _the king is helpless_.’

‘Go and run the bath, Sebastian. I’ll be in my room.’

One does not sit down and play chess with a butler. There are consequences to that sort of familiarity. 

There are divisions; separations.

One does not take a servant into one’s bed. Nor an animal. Nor wake half-weeping from a dream of their warm body.

Ciel climbed the stairs slowly.

One does not allow the touch of obscenity. Nor welcome it.

 _If._ If he was to ring the bell for the butler, and press his lips to that taunting mouth--

One does not kiss.

************************

The boy was restless on the bathmat as Sebastian undressed him.

‘Undertaker is expecting us?’

‘Friday morning, my lord, in London.’

‘If anyone can give us information on the diamond merchant, it will be him; but we hardly need it, anyhow. Woodley is undoubtedly a weapons smuggler. That alone is enough; he will be quite disposable should the need arise.’

Small, drifting, the earl’s voice; far from his usual crisp tone. He was thinking out loud. He did not require an answer. 

‘Lau is yet to reply to our letter. But we have time. Twelve days.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘How do you think Grey will show his hand? He may provoke a fight; or--’ muffled as Sebastian pulled the boy’s dress shirt over his head-- ‘make an accusation against me, perhaps.’

Odd for his master to be discussing business after dinner. It must be very heavy in his mind. 

‘Grey will not draw attention to himself,’ Sebastian replied slowly. ‘He will desire to look like an observer. He will work through a pawn, rouse an unwitting fool to action on his behalf. That is how a nobleman conducts himself, after all.’

Ah, the boy was listening; that little look was rather sharp. ‘They will try to kill Siemens. That much is clear.’ Shivering in the cool evening air, though the fire was bright in the bedroom beyond; shivering down to his bare little knees.

‘Indeed, sir.’

‘They will try to kill me, and we will take steps to remove the murderer.’ He rested one hand on Sebastian’s shoulder for balance as the butler slipped off his thick woolen stockings.

‘Indeed, sir.’ Which is to say, I will take steps, and you will think yourself clever, my lord. 

‘The blame will settle upon me. And if they kill another guest, one that we have not anticipated?’ Of course, the Watchdog was not eager to be censured again so soon by his monarch.

The boy’s bare hip bumped at Sebastian’s elbow as he turned away.

‘Your enemies will not waste this opportunity by removing an innocent, sir; they will use it to take down a target of their own; although the blame would settle upon you, once again.’

The earl stepped into the waiting bath and sighed; in irritation, or in relief at the sudden plunge into deep warm water. ‘That at least will be no difficulty, according to my plan.’

‘Using my death as an alibi, sir.’ 

The boy’s eyes were closed as he settled himself. ‘You have no complaints, I am sure.’

‘None, my lord.’ That coolness was almost beyond endurance. ‘And when one of your guests decides to simply call Scotland Yard?’ If there was an edge of annoyance apparent in Sebastian's voice, his master deserved it.

‘Grey will not desire the attention. He will dissuade them.’ Holding out one arm to permit Sebastian’s warm washcloth. 

Sebastian dipped a cake of rosewater soap into the steaming water. Pale as submerged lilies, the boy’s tired limbs beneath the water. The moored drift of his soft cock. Pale as a drowned corpse.

A bloodless death, drowning. Unsatisfactory.

‘There will be a lady amongst your guests, sir. If she were to request the attendance of the police, no gentleman would be able to disobey her.’

‘There will be two ladies amongst my guests; and I am certain that somebody will find a way to allay their concerns.’ Stiffly.

‘I must correct you, young master. There will be one lady, and Mr Lau’s companion; and as it happens, I have no fear whatsoever for _her_. But you must not be seen to deny a call for the authorities.’

‘Perhaps the weather will be bad, and the authorities will not wish to leave their shelter and their hot soup for an hour of bad roads and a drenching.’

‘Perhaps the weather will be quite fine, sir.’ 

‘Perhaps the weather will oblige us. How powerful are you, exactly?’ The earl opened one eye, a flash of blue.

Sebastian stopped, and twisted out the washcloth slowly. What a thing to ask. What a thing to expect a demon to reveal. ‘Do you doubt me, sir?’ 

‘Always.’ The boy’s eyes were closed again.

Well, then, if swords were being drawn. ‘At which point will you confront the Queen’s Butler, sir?’

‘At _no_ point would I be so foolish. Grey represents Her Majesty, and he cannot be touched. We have our scapegoat to draw the witnesses’ eyes.’

Regather; regroup. ‘I suppose you have settled upon an observer, then. The Watchdog’s watcher.’ 

‘I have.’ The boy tilted his head back to allow the movement of Sebastian’s hand, the warm washcloth over his pale arching throat and narrow chest. The pink-tipped nipples, sharpening. ‘I have sent an invitation to Arthur Doyle. I believe a mystery writer is a most appropriate choice.’

‘A writer, you say.’ Sebastian paused, sitting back on his heels beside the bath. Is this what he was planning? ‘ _A Study in Scarlet_ , perhaps.’

‘The very same. It will be perfect, don’t you think?’ The boy sat up in the bath, shaking damp hair from his eyes. ‘We will plant the clues, and he will fancy himself brilliant in finding them out. He will be to all appearances an unbiased mind, and we will be vindicated. I think he will be ideal. Somebody who will look, and not touch.’ He raised his tired mismatched eyes to Sebastian’s, and they held an unmistakable light of mockery.

‘You are very sure of this stranger, young master.’ Sebastian wrung out the washcloth briskly. ‘I trust you will not find yourself disappointed.’ 

He stood and shook out his master’s towel, holding it ready. 

A writer. A writer of those pulpy penny dreadfuls, all shock and sensation and ‘orrible murders. It was worse than the worst joke.

The boy pulled himself from the tub with another sigh, a reluctant one, and when Sebastian wrapped the towel around his shoulders, he pushed tiredly into the warmth. ‘When one is prepared for everything, one is disappointed by nothing,’ he said. 

Which could be taken several ways, mused the demon, and there was a slow conflagration in his body at the shrug of his master’s narrow shoulders beneath his hands.

‘I see,’ he said, and he picked up his master carefully in his arms. 

The boy said nothing, but the sling of his body stiffened against Sebastian’s chest and he turned his face away as the butler carried him, back through the drip and echo of the bathroom and the dim dressing room, towards the glow of candlelight. 

Of course he would not pull away. He had nobody else to carry him. 

And when they reached the bedside and the bright candelabra, the demon thought he heard his master sigh again, a moment before he lowered the boy to his feet.

‘My lord.’ Because the earl was gazing at the wall with an abstraction that had nothing to do with sleepiness.

‘What is it?’ Shortly.

‘You are rather preoccupied this evening, sir.’ Sebastian knelt down to dry his master’s back.

‘Of course. There is no resting from my duties.’

‘Not everything can be anticipated, young master.’

‘Much of what humans call ingenuity is mere prediction.’ The boy shrugged, and barely hid his shiver as the towel brushed over his groin. 

‘Ingenuity does not lie in prediction, my lord, but in adaptation.’ 

And a scuffling silence as the earl’s hair was dried. 

The boy emerged hot and rumpled from within the towel. ‘I cannot prepare for adaptation.’ He blinked wearily from under the flop of his dark hair. ‘That doesn’t help me.’

So soft, the warm little body, still bath-flushed and rubbed rosy.

‘Then there is very little to worry about, sir.’ Sebastian leaned forward on his knees and brushed his gloved hand over his master’s damp hair, tucking it neatly back.

His master’s look was contemptuous. ‘If I don’t consider these things, who will? I do not expect to be rescued.’ He pushed the butler’s hand away, but he was blushing.

And there it was: the boy reacted instantaneously to the slightest gentleness, wary and scornful and quite aroused.

Sebastian touched lightly at the naked chest. ‘If you insist on believing yourself to be alone, it is no failing of mine, sir.’ The arc of ribs beneath smooth skin. 

‘Stop that.’ His master’s body heaved with unquiet breaths. ‘I am hardly likely to gather consolation from your semblance of empathy, Sebastian.’

But the boy had spoken his name, and stood with his lips still parted.

‘Not empathy, my lord,’ said Sebastian. ‘I would not insult your intelligence with the comparison.’

The demon slid his fingers lower to the jut of hip bone, and the earl shrank back against the bed, flattening himself as though he wanted to disappear. His body was undeniably reacting, though. 

‘What the deuce do you think you're doing?’ The boy’s beautiful marred eyes were wide and level with his own, and the damp fingers were curling in the covers.

Sebastian sighed. ‘You know precisely what I’m doing, sir.’ He brushed his other hand lightly over one bare rosy nipple and was rewarded with a flinch beneath his hand.

‘Did I give you permission?’ Small, cold. Sharp.

‘Are you ordering me otherwise, sir?’ Sebastian did not wait for a reply, and lifted the boy up onto the edge of the bed, settling the slim warm legs apart.

‘Sebastian. Se _bas_ tian--’

‘Yes, sir.’ The demon pressed his hand to the boy’s chest and pushed him back onto the covers. 

He half sat up again, his pointed face faltering. ‘Ah, I didn’t--’

‘I am aware of that, sir. Hold still.’ The butler held his master’s parted thighs and bent to lick at the tremble of flesh between them. 

He heard the gasp as his tongue met the soft sweet skin. And he waited, but the boy didn’t kick this time, or thrash against the touch, only lay back and covered his face with both hands. 

Oh, he was learning _very_ fast.

Sebastian sighed, warm breath across his master’s belly, and bent his head again.

How delicious it is to take one’s time over dessert.

The candlelight showed a bare sheen of fine hairs below the polished hips, dusted above the pretty spigot of his cock, and Sebastian felt rather than saw them; a whisper, a tickle at his parted lips.

He flicked his tongue lightly, and the boy moaned through his teeth.

The crease of his master’s groin was warm and still dampened from his bath, fragrant with rosewater. Sebastian pressed his lips into the fold and moved lower. The tightened pouch, its fatty skin corrugated delicately under his tongue, and the thick pinky slip of the cock itself, a glistening bit of flesh to nibble at.

A line of tiny nipping bites along the soft inner thigh; a row of reddening pinches in its wake, and the wincing of the flesh. A quick suck at the shivering slim shaft, and the boy made a sound from behind his hands; he was trying to be silent. 

How very lovely. Sebastian half-smiled as he leaned against the bed and settled the boy's thighs properly over his shoulders. 

He took his master’s cock between careful gloved fingers to pump the base as he mouthed it. A gasp, a stifled noise, and the demon was quiet as he could be to hear the hastened breaths of the body above him. The shaft was thickening already between his lips; a pulse, and another, frantic against his tongue, and the delicate skin had tightened over the hungry swelling. 

He took the whole length of the warm little shiver, deep and soft, teasing it out and sucking more firmly, half-closing his teeth until the lengthened canines pinned the throb of the hectic twitching. 

Again, again. Lightly, lightly; but there was a tang of the boy’s flavour in his mouth already, and the tired legs were shaking against his neck.

Sebastian had no plan of making it so easy for his master. The wet shaft slithered from his lips, stiff and slick as a fish, and he saw the boy’s arch of impatience at the sudden loss.

Oh, sir; you are not finished. I am not finished. Not yet.

He nipped delicately at the hardened sack and began to tease the glossy seam that ran beneath, flicking the tip of his tongue across the sharp gather, and as he rolled up the boy’s hips, he followed it with his mouth, the deep salt taste of him, down to the rosy lips of the twitching hole.

And pressed his tongue-tip in, and heard the squeal. 

The bitter heat of his master’s hidden flesh. 

Sebastian felt the ripple in his own quiet body, slow, stirred. Woken. 

The boy was making noises, a ripple of muffled noises around his fist as he writhed against the tongue inside him, and Sebastian pushed the quivering thighs a little higher. Wider. And deeper in, and felt the agonised clench of the boy’s tight hole. 

Delicate, fluttering, and the suction bubble as Sebastian pulled away and sucked again, tugging his tongue within the pucker.

And his hot animal taste. 

The demon growled.

The little legs quivered. 

The boy made a long broken sound and Sebastian laughed against the shaken body, against the blossom-spread of his cleft because that was it, _already_ , and when the demon raised his head, his master's heaving belly glistened with his own milky dribble. Half a minute’s teasing and the child was spent.

‘Oh, dear me.’ Sebastian stood up with a luxuriating shake of his shoulders. He leaned over the small body, gloved fists pressed into the covers, and he nudged his nose against the bare navel and licked at the spillage. Salt, a delicate trail over his tongue; fierce between his legs. A slow ache in his spine. ‘We shall have to work on your stamina, sir.’

His master’s curled-up knees were tucked against him and the demon shifted one of them carefully, pressing the slim thigh between his own. The swell of his clothed arousal twitched and he ground into it with a sigh. And stopped.

The boy’s hands were braced against his buttoned chest.

‘Enough,’ the boy said. ‘Leave _now_.’ Flushed as he held the demon away from his body, mouth bitten red with the effort of his silence.

Sebastian met the cold eyes steadily. ‘I thought you were rather enjoying it. Perhaps I was mistaken, sir.’

‘You may leave,’ the boy repeated, and there was a break of anger in it. ‘I’ve had enough.’

Sebastian breathed out. ‘Have you, now?’ He didn’t release the warm leg between his own. ‘I haven’t.’

The boy slapped him.

‘Out,’ he said, ‘ _dog_ ,’ and he was hoarse with rage.

Sebastian’s cheek stung. His body tensed. A slow ignition.

‘Manners, sir,’ he said, and he bent his head to the flutter of the boy’s bare chest and bit him, hard on the smooth skin above his nipple, and pinned the thrashing arms and took the thump of knees against his stomach and bit harder, sucking at the taste of blood and harder again until his master’s scream was a perfect hum, a ringing in his ears like an ache, like the throb of his body, and then he let him go.

A bruise like a dark petal, and the indent of teeth.

‘You filthy--’ Only a shudder of sound. ‘You--’

‘Very likely, sir. Shall I dress you?’

‘ _Out_ \--’

Sebastian left his master sprawled half-off the bed, sobbing in the blankets, and closed the door quietly behind him. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a head-canon. Ciel believes that a kiss on the mouth is more intimate than sex. Fight me~
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter! In my previous story, Sebastian's POV was more reflective, interspersed between Ciel's POV as a sort of reflection, but as you can see, in this one his POV will be more-- well, active. Let me know if you think this is a good thing or not--


	3. contra {against}

Ciel woke with a jump and shuddered, but it was only the wind again, a roar outside the windows.

He didn’t know how long he had slept. Hours, or minutes; but after he’d pulled his nightgown on with cold clumsy fingers and crawled into his bed, he had stayed very still on his pillow for a long time, and once he thought he heard the click of his bedroom door.

He had waited in the breathless dark, and there had been no further sound; but there wouldn’t be, would there? 

And later, minutes, or hours, the door again, as the demon left his master’s room in silence. Or perhaps it had only been the wind.

A stillness, a clear sharp stillness and Ciel felt coldly and terribly awake. 

He’d exhausted himself last night with crying. Why did he have to cry when he was angry? It was an utter degradation. But he was calm now. The vast spread of his mind was washed clean, a world after rain.

Sharp and still. 

He moved his hand to the throbbing bruise on his chest, and touched it lightly through the cambric nightgown. It was there, he hadn’t dreamt it. The beast had defiled his body, and it had bitten him. Sebastian had done this, with his teeth, his unclean mouth. His pointed trailing tongue _inside_. 

Ciel breathed in shakily. His body ached where Sebastian had tasted him.

And then the shadow of that black hunger had poured over him, settling over his legs, against his chest, and he remembered the crush of its weight and the monstrous heat it held between its thighs. 

Ciel had stopped it. And his servant had spoken against him, and Ciel had hit him in the face, of course, and seen the slow blink of eyelids over that glow, that warming heat like twin coals cupped and blown-upon and kindled. 

And then teeth.

The wound hurt him. And it had happened, and Ciel was wide awake.

Sebastian could not pretend, could not talk his way out of it or around it or through it, smiling pleasantly, gloved hands spread in a shrug because the demon had done something, shown something more than another mask, and Ciel closed his eyes at the shiver of his own vivid rage.

The butler had always pressed at his master’s boundaries. He had always stood too near, and watched too closely; but at the edge of protocol, always, where he could dissolve and re-form and slip away from his master’s censure.

Not this time. Everything seemed simple and distant now. Like a map spread far below.

Ciel’s blood felt like ice in his veins and he shivered beneath the covers; but he wasn’t cold, only exultantly alive. His fingers moved from the bruise on his skin and down to the shudder between his legs. It was restless through his nightgown. He curled his hand around it, pulling slowly, and closed his eyes. 

The monstrous thing that followed his footsteps in every dream, that crept and slithered over him, lapping like a pool of dark sludge, sticky in his lungs, his throat, his mouth-- it had eyes. It had teeth.

He’d known it would be dangerous. He’d been prepared to singe his fingertips in reaching for the fire. But this, it was too much; a flame, and it would consume him. A wave, and it would close silently over his head.

Sebastian would pay. The beast must know he had gone too far and pushed his master too hard. If there was no reprisal, he would only go further. 

And how far would he go?

Ciel stifled his noise in his throat. Teasing, teasing. The memory of the demon’s mouth was fiercer than his own hand on his flesh.

The demon desired him. Surely. To do such a thing. Whether Sebastian’s pleasure was in the act itself or his master’s mortification was almost beside the point. He would try again, if Ciel allowed it.

And would he allow it? He had allowed this much. The press of Sebastian’s tongue. 

Ciel shivered at the thought. 

And moaned, and his nightgown was suddenly wet beneath his hand. 

He curled his knees up, searching for breath. Even the memory of Sebastian’s touch could overthrow him. Hopeless, utterly. 

There must be no game if he couldn’t be sure of winning. The demon would pay. A handful of shadow cannot be caught; but a dog can be punished for disobedience. 

Ciel rolled over slowly on his pillow, settling his cold cheek on cold linen, and listened to the thunder of his own heartbeat, and the owls in the distant pines.

**************************

‘Is your master awake yet, Mr Sebastian?’

‘Not yet.’ Sebastian was slicing a sliver of smoked salmon from the rosy slab of fish and did not look up. ‘He will not be out of bed for quite some time, yet.’

He heard Agni pause over the mortar and pestle. ‘Mine is already awake and awaiting his breakfast. I believe my Prince wants to go horse-riding this morning before we return to London. Do you think Lord Ciel would go with him?’

‘I do not believe my lord would rouse himself for such a thing today.’ Sebastian put down his knife, glancing up as he reached for the bunch of parsley. ‘The earl is not exactly enthusiastic about fresh air.’

It was still dark outside the high kitchen windows but it was already a steaming bustle inside; the place smelt of frying eggs and baking bread and cardamom, cut through with the unmistakable stench of a scorching coffee-pot from Bard at the stove in the corner. Finny was yawning as he stumbled past the marble-topped bench on his way towards the staff table for his breakfast, and he nodded at the pair of butlers.

Agni nodded back at him.

Fascinating, really, thought Sebastian. Fascinating how quickly mortals could accept each other into their routines; into their affections. But then again, they had so little time to waste.

Agni looked back at Sebastian and shrugged. ‘My Prince likes to keep busy with new things. He is very energetic, but I cannot complain; I only praise the gods that his health is strong.’

Sebastian looked away from the man’s face, from those pale-lashed eyes and their light of unearthly sincerity. It was too devout to be entirely laughable. Close to being admirable, really; anyone who can find meaning in a meaningless life is worthy of admiration. Whether the object of Agni’s adoration was _worthy_ was another question altogether, and the demon scarcely bothered himself with it; there is no accounting for the emotions of mortals.

The adoration itself was something to behold, though. The servant’s glowing joy and utter dedication. The Prince’s warm affection, and his clear pride in his butler’s achievements. Deservedly so-- Agni was not an entirely useless servant. Sebastian had to admit that much, and Soma was not blind to it either; the Prince was rather noisily appreciative, if anything. He even said _thank-you_ to his butler. More than once.

Sebastian jabbed the tip of his filleting knife into the flushed wedge of salmon.

He needed no recognition for his work. A job is worth doing well, for its own sake, and the satisfaction of completion. 

The occasional acknowledgement wouldn’t hurt, though.

Agni was speaking again. ‘Your master would prefer to save his energy; that is very understandable.’ The man bent to smell the ground cardamom pods inside the stone mortar. ‘Lord Ciel has been ill very recently.’

The warm sweet scent of Agni’s spices settled in Sebastian’s nose, and he twitched it thoughtfully. ‘I simply think my lord is rather spoilt. He would sleep until noon if I let him.’

‘Oh.’ Agni paused. ‘You must consider that perhaps sleep is what he needs sometimes. Lord Ciel works himself hard but he is only a very little boy.’

Sebastian wiped his gloved hands on his linen apron. 

He’d heard the sounds when he returned quietly to check on his young master’s room at midnight, the high breathy sounds from the shadowy bed; a wounded child still sniffling on the edge of tears. The boy’s naked body had been too small, bundled in the towel against Sebastian’s chest. Spread under his servant’s hands on the bed. And his shuddering little red _mouth_ \--

Sebastian leaned against the edge of the kitchen bench, feeling a warning stir of arousal. ‘Yes,’ he said carefully. ‘That is the case.’

‘You must not forget it.’ Agni’s wide eyes were quite charmingly serious. ‘We are very honoured by the trust our position gives us, and we are not simply responsible for our masters’ food and safety. We must nurture them and love them also.’

‘Indeed.’ Sebastian cleared his throat, and picked up his filleting knife again. ‘And what if one’s master is a selfish and controlling little sadist?’

Agni laughed out loud. ‘Every young nobleman is demanding sometimes, Mr Sebastian. They are still growing up and testing their power. If Lord Ciel asks you for something, he is only reminding himself that it is his privilege. You must think of it differently; your master is giving you an opportunity to prove yourself.’

Agni sounded quite genuine. Sebastian nearly smiled. 

The man lived in a simple world of devotion and sunlight and assurance. He was loyal to his Prince, and it was repaid. Agni could no more comprehend the Earl of Phantomhive’s calculating nature than he could imagine the sulphuric pits of hell.

But Sebastian was inclined to tolerance this morning; he had subdued his young master again, and he could still taste the boy on his tongue, bitter and sweet and salt. All of him. 

He glanced up at Agni as he worked. ‘What is your advice, then?’

The Indian butler put down his pestle and bowed his head. ‘I know that you take very good care of your master, and you have saved him many times, but he must always be your priority.’

‘He is,’ said Sebastian. He cracked an egg crisply.

‘Your every waking moment must be spent in the observation of his habits and his desires.’

‘They are.’ _Crack. Crack._

‘You must take the greatest care to anticipate and meet every requirement before he is even aware of it himself.’

Sebastian scooped minced parsley into the waiting bowl. ‘I must say, I think I am doing rather well at that one.’

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Agni’s steady honesty was almost enough to give him a shadow of shame. Almost. ‘But you must keep in mind that your master’s physical body is not your only concern.’

Sebastian ground the pepper-pot viciously. ‘It is at the moment.’

‘Oh no,’ said Agni. ‘No, my friend. What about his education? His mind?’

 _My friend_. It seemed to crackle over Sebastian’s skin, the oddness of those words. And he was yet to decide if it was unpleasant or not.

‘My lord’s education is progressing with great thoroughness.’ Sebastian looked up, pausing with his whisk poised. ‘I can assure you of that much. And his mind is unusually strong for a boy of his age; I have observed it for long enough to know most of its strength and flaws.’ Long enough to know that he would meet with ice upstairs this morning, a child-shaped glacier tucked against cold pillows. There was little hope of seeing the earl in humiliated confusion, even after that; the demon had learned. Or his master had. There would be scorn, though, and some sort of nominal punishment, and then things would return to their uneasy status quo. 

The earl might protest but he could never live without this game, now.

‘Lord Ciel is very clever.’ Agni paused, cupping the stone mortar in his bound hand and his bare one. ‘He is good at his studies. You must be very proud of him.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Not entirely untrue.

‘To manage so much at such an age is a great achievement for a young nobleman. You have done well to assist him in his work.’

'Indeed.' That was utterly true, actually.

‘You are very observant of your master,’ said Agni. ‘That is a good thing. You were not aware that he had asthma, though.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian shortly. He began to whisk again. No, the boy hadn’t spoken a word of that; he hid his weaknesses carefully. The demon understood that well enough, and there was a list, a growing list of things that were not to be spoken of between him and his master. Things that were not to be noticed. Names that were not to be used. Questions that were not to be asked, or must only be answered with a silence. It was a challenge for a demon who was bound to truthfulness. Something of a trap, really, like the nightingale floors in the ancient palaces of Japan; each step upon it made the polished timbers cry out like birds, a warning for the sleeping lord within.

Every trap has its weak spot, though. Every assassin had his technique for the nightingale floor. Run light and swift, and barely touch the wood at all. Or walk, a measured pace, and have your sword drawn through the keening cries of the singing floor, prepared already for the battle at the end.

‘You know his mind very well, then.’ Agni was nodding. ‘That is good. And what about his heart?’

‘Ah.’ Sebastian put down his whisk. ‘My lord has no desire to engage his softer emotions on anything that isn’t topped with whipped cream and a cherry.’

There is a third way for an assassin to defeat the nightingale floor. Stand in the shadow of the hallway and call sweetly, and wait for the lord to come out of his room.

‘Cake is a good beginning,’ said Agni. ‘But cake is not enough for a small boy who has no mother and father to love him.’

‘So I’m beginning to see,’ said Sebastian.

The third way has its problems. The assassin must be willing to speak. And the lord must be willing to be deceived.

There are some games that his master would never pretend to play.

‘Lord Ciel sits at his desk all day.’ Agni was grinding his spices again. Sharp pepper, warm dry cinnamon, sweet coriander root. ‘He is working on numbers and words, and he should be resting his brain. He will work and work and it will be the death of him.’

The demon smiled, and dropped a judicious pinch of salt into the bowl of swirling egg. ‘Thank you for your concern,’ he said, ‘but I do not believe it will be paperwork that finishes my young master in the end.’

  
  


*****************************

‘It is time to get up, my lord.’ Soft and bell-clear, and the chink of porcelain.

‘I’m not asleep,’ Ciel said, and he folded his hands in his lap as the window curtains were pulled open.

‘Indeed, my lord.’ 

‘Paper.’

The butler glanced at him, a fresh thoughtful look, and handed over the folded newspaper he was carrying tucked beneath his arm. ‘The tea is a Chinese--’

‘Just make it, will you.’

Sebastian paused, glancing over again. ‘Of course, young master.’

The demon looked absent, his hands moving with smooth automation from tea-pot to caddy to hot water, and the low morning light showed the cool edge of his profile. Fine; calm. As though he had slept soundly. As though he hadn’t been moving through the midnight house, wary and hollow as the very shadows.

Ciel looked back at his open newspaper, but he was barely scanning the inky print. 

Murder. Hangings. A coal mine collapse, and sixteen dead. Floods in Holland. Theft in Belgravia. Another Thursday.

Sebastian was removing the cloche from the porcelain plate. ‘Your breakfast this morning is a salmon omelette, sir.’ 

Very good it smelt, too, and Ciel began to eat. He might as well, before he got down to business. He could be patient. Vengeance on impulse is foolish. He ought not to have struck Sebastian as a reaction; better to have waited, considered, shown himself capable of matching the demon’s infuriating composure instead of crumpling like a child. 

It had felt good, though. To hit him. Full across the face, a sharp slap. Ciel licked a swab of salt butter from his wedge of toast and nearly smiled. 

‘Prince Soma will be returning to the townhouse after lunch today, young master.’

‘Marvellous.’

‘And Mr Lau has acknowledged your invitation to stay here, and will be available to receive you tomorrow morning while we are in the city.’

‘I don’t need his acknowledgement. I planned to visit him anyhow.’

‘Your usual lessons will resume this afternoon, and the--’

‘I don’t have time for lessons when I’m on a case.’

‘Your marks in science are still significantly below average, sir, if your last assignment is anything to judge by; I do not believe the closest planet to the Sun has ever been Mars.’ Blandly. ‘Mrs Rodkin will be here at half-past one for your French.’

‘Mhm. _Il n'y a rien de mal avec mon français._ ’

‘The day that you know all there is to know, my lord, I will cancel your lessons entirely.’

‘I hardly trust your judgement on such a matter. Three years ago you barely knew how to boil water.’

‘You appear to have slept well, my lord.’

Ciel looked over. ‘No.’ 

The butler paused, his hands cradling the tea-pot, napkin-wrapped. ‘No?’

Now was as good a time as any. 

‘I was distinctly uncomfortable for most of the night.’ Ciel brushed toast crumbs from his nightgown and laid down his fork. ‘I don’t suppose you have a particularly fascinating excuse for the evening’s behaviour.’ He set it sharp and levelled at Sebastian, and watched the butler's face. 

‘Young master.’ The butler paused. ‘I was unaware that you were unhappy with my behaviour, sir.’ He poured the tea in silence, and set down the tea-pot. ‘You did not command me to stop, my lord.’ 

Sebastian passed him the tea-cup. His eyes were lowered; he looked quite calm.

Ciel took his time. ‘Oh?’ He sipped slowly. He could feel the sting of his bitten skin. ‘You make a great pretence at ignorance, but I cannot believe that even you would be quite that stupid.’

Satisfying to inject that emphasis, and watch the demon’s eyes for a sign of something.

But Sebastian’s lashes hardly flickered. ‘Was it not rather effective, sir?’

‘Effective.’ The nerve of it. ‘What the deuce do you mean by that?’

Sebastian was looking at him with a hateful air of toleration. ‘Your mood has improved considerably this morning, my lord.’ He tilted his head. ‘You appear to be focussed and refreshed; your colour is fine, and--’ an almost imperceptible intake of breath-- ‘your heart-rate is brisk. An advancement upon your sluggish anxiety of last night, I should think.’

‘You think I’m happy.’ Ciel couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice.

The butler looked mildly startled. ‘Oh, no, young master; merely animated. Stimulated, perhaps.’ The slightest arch of his brows. ‘Excited.’

Ciel’s breath was quick in his chest. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

The butler’s bow was patient. ‘I can do nothing without my lord’s permission. If I acted, it was upon your orders, or in your interests. I am only a pawn in your hands, after all, sir. I am only your mirror, and your shadow. I exist only to serve you. Is that not the case, young master?’

‘No,’ Ciel said again, clipped to avoid stammering. _No_ , he said, an echo in his own head. _You cannot do this._

The butler’s face was neatly composed, and his brow was gathered just a fraction. ‘Sir?’

Ciel felt the hot porcelain burning his fingertips. ‘No,’ he said steadily. ‘Your actions were not acceptable.’

‘I regret that you should have a need to doubt me, sir.’ Sebastian’s beautiful face shadowed slowly. ‘If, however, your _injury_ is causing you distress, I will attend to it at once.’

No. No, no.

Not like this at all.

‘I’m fine.’ Shortly. Ciel didn’t want those solicitous gloved fingers touching him, that careful pale face inspecting him with a disapproving _tsk_ and a frown of regret, not now, not after that--

‘As you please, sir,’ said Sebastian gently, and he turned back to tuck the napkin closer about the tea-pot lest it cool in the chilly morning air. 

Ciel looked down at his own hands curled on the edge of the breakfast tray. Smoke in the wind. A shiver over water. You could stab in the dark and pin down precisely nothing, no essence of the thing at all. It shifted. It adapted. 

‘Mhm,’ he said. He cleared his throat. ‘More tea.’

‘Sir,’ said Sebastian. A deep bow. When Ciel glanced up again, the demon was smiling. 

He listened to the gurgle of tea against the cup and his stomach bubbled hotly. ‘Sebastian.’

‘Mhm?’ And seeming to recall himself, ‘My lord?’

‘Kneel down.’

The demon turned, and his expression showed a higher arch of surprise. It looked real; but was anything about Sebastian real? Not his treacherous mouth. His bestial tongue. ‘Sir?’

‘Really. If you’re going to make me say it twice.’

Sebastian obeyed, slowly, kneeling down on the carpet beside the bed, and a shadow was settling on his face, a look of wounded puzzlement. This was better, though; the lovely blank face was level with his own, and not floating like a cloud of condescension above him.

‘You acted beyond the requirements of our contract,’ said Ciel. He pushed the breakfast tray off his lap and shuffled to the edge of his bed. ‘And every action must have an equal reaction. Opposite,’ he said coolly. ‘Contrary. That’s science, isn’t it?’

‘If I overstepped my lord’s desires, it was merely because you did not indicate that my previous attentions were unwelcome, sir.’ The slightest pause before the word. _Attentions_.

Ciel took a deep careful breath. ‘You intend to imply that this is in some way my fault.’ 

‘There is no fault, sir, beyond a lack of prudence on my part, and my overindulgence of your desires. It is possible that I misjudged the mortal tolerance of pain. If an apology is required, I am willing to offer one.’ There was something like concern around Sebastian’s warm brown eyes.

‘Misjudged.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘You do feel pain, though?’

‘Of course, sir.’ Sebastian’s hands were loose at his sides, uncurled. But his eyes were glistening dark beneath his half-lowered lashes. 

And Ciel sat on the edge of his bed, breathing hard, and realised Sebastian had been correct. _Excited._ This was excitement.

‘Hold out your hand.’

Sebastian held it out slowly. His right. Palm down, a wary fist. Ciel took it in both of his own and turned it over, spreading it open on his knee. 

A slim hand, long fingered, and Ciel pushed up the butler’s cuff. The white glove was buttoned low over the swell of Sebastian’s palm and above the edge of it showed the dull ivory skin of his inner wrist.

Ciel pressed his fingertips into it; a touch, experimental, on the demon’s bare skin. Polished skin. He could feel no temperature at all, which meant it was the same temperature as his own blood; and Ciel clenched his knees together beneath his nightgown.

The twin tendons of Sebastian’s inner wrist were firm but the space between them was yielding under his probing thumb.

‘What you did was beyond the bounds of our contract.’

Sebastian’s mouth twitched. ‘Such an admission could be argued, I suppose, although--’

‘I am. I’m arguing just that. And you are not about to deny it, are you?’

The demon’s eyes narrowed, a hot topaz gleam. He didn’t speak.

‘I didn’t think so.’

Ciel bent over Sebastian’s bared wrist and bit down hard. 

His teeth dug deeper than he’d imagined, grinding closed around the smooth skin, and it was warm against his tongue. Harder. And a tang in his mouth, and he realised he’d broken the skin. 

He pulled back. Licked his lips. The ring of his teeth showed on the demon’s skin, a pointed coronet. And a single purple-rimmed puncture.

Sebastian did not withdraw his hand from Ciel’s, or even glance down at it, only met his master’s gaze unblinkingly. His eyes were almost black with fierce dilation. ‘I see.’ The press of his canines showed against his lower lip. ‘Am I to assume you took no pleasure from the evening’s activities, sir?’

Ciel let go of the demon’s wrist. ‘Get back to work,’ he said. ‘After you finish in the kitchen I imagine the stables will need mucking out again.’

Sebastian stood, and Ciel turned back to his breakfast tray, and when he looked around Sebastian had disappeared into the dressing room. 

Not a win, not even now. The demon positively _slithered_. Sebastian probably believed he could tear his master to pieces and still convince him it was his own idea. Or his own desire; and Ciel looked down at his tea-cup. His own face swirled back at him, reflected. How much of it was him? It was only an image.

And the heat, the tremor of heat he saw sometimes in the demon’s gaze. How much of that desire was his own? 

He could hear the sound of closing wardrobe doors from the dressing room. Not a slam. Not quite. 

Well, then. Ciel set down his tea-cup with a clink. Perhaps it was closer to a win than he’d imagined.

Ciel was silent as Sebastian laid out his morning’s clothes, and as the butler began to dress him. He watched the demon’s face, his pale composure, but nothing showed, not even when the nightgown came off and the dark bite on Ciel's chest was bared. Nothing reflected in Sebastian's expression. 

The butler moved as smoothly as clockwork. It was a sort of wonder how different his gloved touch felt, coolly like this, entirely impersonal. 

Ciel looked away to the window. He didn’t want to see the quick fingers moving over his shirt-buttons. Sebastian’s very efficiency was a lie; he was no more than a coil of pitch poured into the mould of a nobleman’s butler, a bubble of slow-moving shadow; but there was something beneath the shifting masks, and it had teeth.

When the earl sat on the bed’s edge for his shoes and stockings he glanced down again. And breathed in with great care.

He could see the demon’s arousal, unmistakably. Tucked into the tight crouch of his thigh. Long against the line of it; and Sebastian would be naked beneath those slim dark woollen trousers. Wouldn’t he?

Ciel watched as the butler leaned to fasten the garter beneath his master’s knee. The touch was soft as water. It trembled within him like a brimming cup.

Hunger. It was all hunger, the whole stifling tide of it, and Ciel's hands were warm and damp against the bedcovers. He wondered what it would feel like on his skin. If he welcomed the slip, let it lap across him, the slow trickle like poison. Like warm chocolate down his throat.

If he could only see the demon’s body. And touch the cool bare skin. He could order the butler to remove his jacket, to strip everything off, and Sebastian would not be able to protest. Not if his master demanded it. Simple as asking for cake. Except the hardness in the demon’s eyes wouldn’t be simple. It wouldn’t be submission, only a terrible dark amusement. There would be no winner. 

Only two kinds of people exist in this world; those who steal and those who are stolen from. Those who give and those who take.

Ciel stretched out his stockinged foot and bumped the butler’s thigh. And slid his pointed toes up the lean line of it. 

Sebastian gave a quick glance upwards and Ciel felt it move inside him. His heartbeat was a shift of wings beneath his ribs.

‘Sebastian.’

‘Sir.’ Quietly.

Ciel pressed his toes against the butler’s legs, finding the heat between. Soft. Stirring.

Sebastian’s mouth looked very thin. He did not look up again, but Ciel thought the butler moved himself slowly, fractionally; a tiny press against the touch. 

He curled his damp fingers against his lap. ‘One would almost imagine there was something you wanted.’ 

‘No more than any other day, my lord.’ Sebastian’s eyes were lowered again. He was lacing up the shaft of Ciel’s high-heeled boot now, his fingers busy at his master’s ankle. His elegant face was white as death. For a creature who used words as weaponry, he did not seem to enjoy explaining himself. He should never have been foolish enough to show it.

‘I see.’ Ciel kept his voice light and cool. It was like leaning too close to a fire, the heat that quivered through his legs, bloomed against his face. He rubbed his toes at the tender flesh beneath the butler’s trousers. ‘There is nothing at all that you desire from me.’

‘Desire, sir.’ Sebastian spoke carefully. He held his pleasant bland expression but something tightened around his heavy-lidded eyes. ‘I believe you cannot be unaware that the acquisition of your soul has been the greatest preoccupation of--’

‘I don’t mean my soul.’

Sebastian’s gaze was fixed on the boot under his hands. ‘You shall have to be more specific, my lord.’

‘My body, then.’

Pause. ‘I will admit, sir, that the scent of your blood has always held a sort of fascination for one who--’

‘Carnal,’ said Ciel, ‘not culinary.’ He was scarcely breathing.

Pause. ‘My lord...’

‘Yes or no will do, Sebastian.’

The demon looked up at him, and didn’t blink his heated dark eyes. There was silence. Then Sebastian licked his lower lip, a slow sweep of his pale tongue, and Ciel felt the strain of the beast’s arousal against his toes.

He let out the breath he hadn’t known he was holding. ‘Good,’ he said, and it was. It was good. _This._ This was a game worth playing, though he couldn’t even guess at the rules. He sat up straight, driving his weight into the soft twitch of Sebastian’s flesh. 

The demon flinched.

Ciel pulled his foot away. 

And he felt as though he’d found something, grasping blindly in the dark between them, some fragment of a crooked shadow, something real, and it felt good.

Sebastian did not glance up again as he laced the other boot, and fetched his master’s rings, and tied the black silk eye-patch carefully.

Ciel heard the butler’s breaths, though. Slow; calm. Controlled. And he saw the insistent prominence beneath his servant’s trousers when they both stood up. 

He straightened his collar. His head sang with clarity. ‘Don’t disturb me until morning tea,’ he said.

‘Of course, sir.’ Acquiescence.

He felt the demon fall into step behind him as he made for the door. He was turning towards his study when Sebastian raised his voice.

‘My lord.’ 

Ciel turned. ‘What now?’

‘I trust I did not hurt you too severely, sir.’

Ciel looked back at him, at the utter coolness of Sebastian’s expression. ‘Yes,’ he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. ‘You did. But I’ve had worse.’

The demon’s face shadowed. A strange quick look and it made Ciel’s stomach twist. It couldn’t be pity. Surely not. The creature wouldn’t dare.

Perhaps that’s what made Ciel speak again, when he’d been determined not to. Slow. Deliberate. Mimicking the demon’s polite mockery. ‘I trust it was not your intention to cause me pain, Sebastian.’

Whatever expression had darkened the demon’s face was gone already, and Sebastian’s cold mouth looked thin and pinched. ‘My lord,’ he said, and he bowed low. ‘I take my pleasures where I can.’ His tailcoat swirled in the shadowy hallway as he turned on his heel and left.

  
  
  
  
  



	4. inter {between}

Sebastian managed to make it halfway down the stairs of the East Wing before he was obliged to pause on the landing and re-adjust his trousers. 

And again on the way towards the kitchen, and the demon hissed to himself in the long bare corridor.

The boy had shown no hesitation this time. He hadn’t even blushed as he gazed down at his servant with his little lips pressed together, digging in his sharp toes. That hadn’t been the wary groping of a child, but the provocation of a wilful master; and Sebastian _was_ provoked.

Properly so.

‘Brat,’ he whispered, ‘obnoxious _runt_ of a brat,’ and he straightened his black silk tie as he headed for the kitchen. 

The bite on his wrist he could take. Could even enjoy, perversely, that hot little mouth on his bare skin and the blossoming pull of pain. 

The twist of the earl’s lips afterwards had been much less manageable.

It should have burnt Sebastian’s blood to feel his master’s wicked satisfaction, to read the lust in those clear mismatched eyes. Stirred his simmering hunger like the touch itself. And oh, it did, it _did_ , but it was not unmixed: he couldn’t sink into the absolution of his own exactitude, not when the boy had looked down at him so levelly.

The young lord ought to have shrunk at the sight of his servant’s lechery. He should have coloured in confusion or flinched in understanding. But his probing touch had been a sort of mockery. 

And those words. 

Sebastian hadn’t expected the earl’s answer when he’d posed his final question in the hallway. He knew well enough that the bite had hurt his master; the boy had still been sniffling hours later. And he knew well enough that his master had suffered worse. Of course he knew. He’d bathed the broken little body himself. Bruised, torn. Branded. He’d watched the Earl of Phantomhive’s skin heal slowly, even as the vast blue empty eyes did not, those first strange weeks in this house.

The demon’s first weeks bound to this particular master; his smallest, his youngest. His most formidable. The only master who’d ever thought to use their three wishes thus: binding, not expanding; containing, not grasping. The boy had demanded a weapon, a tool he could rely upon: not riches. But he wouldn’t, would he?

They never ask for things they’ve always had. 

This one had asked for control. He’d given his soul for it.

Sebastian snapped his teeth together, _click_ in the quiet hallway.

The boy was much too good at being the master. Too reliant upon it. He’d built himself a pleasant little nest for himself, a house of cards propping up his own complacency. That burned more than the nudge of his toes against Sebastian’s stirring body: this child fancied himself a demon’s _equal_. 

Sebastian paused at the doorway of the empty store kitchen, his eyes flicking over the tidy shelves and china cabinets, and the sandstone floor still gleaming wet from Mey-rin’s scrubbing.

‘Mister Sebastian, should I be pruning the apple trees this morning?’ Finny leaned around the doorway, hat in hand, and Sebastian waved him away.

‘No,’ he said. ‘Only the clematis.’ The demon sniffed the air, half-absently. ‘Before noon, please, it’s going to rain again;’ and Finny disappeared.

Sebastian frowned.

_I’ve had worse._

His master hadn’t been looking for sympathy, saying a thing like that. And the demon hadn’t planned to show respect upon hearing it. He must have shown it, though, because he’d seen the answering look of disgust across his master’s face, the revulsion of a mortal against an animal feigning humanity.

That look had driven Sebastian to truthfulness. 

Of course it had been pleasure burning through his veins last night as he sank his teeth into his master’s body. The greatest pleasure he’d had yet from the boy, better even than the feel of his bare skin and his raw animal taste. Better than the heat of his shame, or his tremulous desire. And the earl _desired_. He had bitten his dog in return.

Punishment; no. Punishment for a household servant is docked pay. Dismissal. For a butler who takes no pay and cannot be dismissed: a whipping, perhaps. Not _that,_ not teeth on his wrist, fierce and hungry. The boy had bitten him because he wanted to bite. Wanted to taste. Wanted to be tasted; and he would get it, too.

Sebastian leaned his hand against the store-room wall for a moment. The pulse of his half-roused body seemed a constant hum; a lower frequency beneath the ripples of sound he’d learned to ignore, the murmur of distant mortal things; birds, and beasts, and human speech. 

His bones ached. His own appetite devoured him. It had been too long _._ The last soul he’d taken was little more than an echo left inside him, hollow, unsatisfactory, a frail echo of the living flaring heat that shimmered in his consciousness-- a point on a map, a pulse in the flesh-- two floors up and twelve rooms over, sitting at another’s desk. Wearing another’s name.

An echo of an echo, a mirrored mirror. A taunt of flavour in the devil’s mind. A delicate corruption in his mouth.

‘Mister Sebastian,’ said Mey-rin’s voice from the staff kitchen. The demon winced.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Here.’

The maid appeared in the doorway, bobbing a curtsey in a flurry of crisp white skirts. ‘Sir. Agni said that Finny said that _you_ said it’s going to rain.’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘And?’

‘There’s washing out on the line. Should I bring it inside?’

Sebastian looked at Mey-rin. She blinked behind her thick glasses. ‘Clever thinking,’ he said, very carefully, so that he didn’t say something else, something much more interesting and much less polite. So quick to give up their autonomy, these mortals. So relieved to sink into servitude and take their orders, eager to please. Waiting for instruction, wide-eyed. And he’d give two centuries of time to see his master _thus_.

Mey-rin bobbed again. ‘And then the ironing, yes?’

Hot metal and delicate linen in the maid’s hands; hardly. The demon sighed. ‘The ironing I shall do myself, this evening.’ 

‘Very good, sir.’ Mey-rin ducked her head and clattered outside to the garden to collect the washing.

Ironing.

The demon breathed in sharply. Sometimes it was rather difficult to stomach this, the indignity of the mortal world, pinned by the little silver butler’s shield upon his chest. This strange life _between_ \-- this long hunger, separating his awakening and his satiation.

Sebastian closed his eyes. He was tempted, actually, to take himself in hand and find a moment’s consolation-- rushed, here in the kitchen, or slowly in his room upstairs. It had been long enough since that, too; long since he’d permitted himself the self-indulgence of completion even at his own touch. Long since he’d felt the pang of his own release within any of the quivering humans he defiled; he didn’t have the time, for one thing. Nor the inclination to couple with them beyond their usefulness, beyond their inevitable breakage, mental or otherwise. Few were worth the tribute of his climax.

He was rather hungry, though. He itched to grasp himself now, while the print of his master’s touch still stirred his thickened cock. But he would not. He would not. He knew that already. He wouldn’t blunt the edge of his desire.

An aeon of debauchery and what, he was attempting to practise restraint?

The demon almost smiled. 

No. Not that. Not even patience: only strategy. Infinitesimal steps. Slow tightening. The earl wanted to be in _control_. And he’d believe he was, up until the very moment that he wasn’t.

The boy had sold his soul for mastery.

The demon was determined not to let him have it.

**********************

Time has a tyranny all of its own. Ciel had come to know it. 

You make a decision, feeling the seconds drag and swell, your bare feet flinching on a knife’s edge, and the moment passes. Your choice is made, and time breathes on.

Only later do you notice that you’re bleeding half to death.

Ciel had plumped himself behind his desk, opening his notebook, and now he sat in silence. His hands were folded on the polished oak. He wasn’t even looking at the blank pages in front of him.

He hadn’t planned to do it. He’d scarcely even planned to bite the creature, either; but Sebastian’s pale face had been so hateful, so self-satisfied, and Ciel couldn’t endure the thought of the demon leaving his room still thinking he’d twisted his way out of anything. Sebastian had deserved the bite, and more besides; he’d be healed by the time he got downstairs, anyway. It was hardly punishment at all.

But that shiver of flesh between the demon’s legs. Hot, obscene. Trembling under the arch of Ciel’s foot, and he was still burning with it. He could hardly remember walking into his study. He only remembered Sebastian’s face, his sharpened teeth and the flick of his tongue. The demon had answered him with carnivorous silence. 

Much too close to honesty.

Sebastian had been annoyed, at least. He hadn’t been able to hide it. Or hadn’t bothered to: and the thought of having glimpsed something, felt something of the beast beneath was enough to make Ciel’s breath catch in his throat like the gasp, the gasp that caught at him when he was sick-- too often, lately. Since the Circus. He wasn’t well yet. The fever was in his bones.

Ciel dropped his head onto his folded arms. He’d done it twice now. He’d touched the demon _there_ , and he needed to know why he needed it. 

He needed to know what he wanted. How to get it. And how to hold it. This formless ache was too terrible. It spanned the arc of his ribs, hollowed out and shadow-brimming, and it thumped through his veins. It was every inch of him and nameless still.

The thought of the demon’s body near him was horror, hunger, perfect. 

He couldn't live like this, caught between Sebastian’s scorn and suggestion. Between action and reaction. Watching as the demon tied a snare with careful fingers, wire and thread and branch, the bough bent low and tensioned tightly and the beast just waiting for his master to step in. A snap. Inevitable.

It was a swing: up, flying, and the fall like dizzy sickness as the bottom fell out of the world; and a swoop, a lift again, endless over the void. Perhaps this was balance. This was the inevitable; temptation and resistance. A weak way of putting things, though. Submission and resistance: better, and maybe manageable if he was focused and clear-headed and thought very steadily about what he really wanted.

Or didn’t think about it. Tried to ignore it. He could nearly do it. He could mistake this feeling for disgust if he tried, because it was disgust, this quiver in his stomach when he thought of Sebastian’s touch. Or his teeth. Or his eyes, watchful. Or his hushed warm voice, his shuddering arousal and hell, it was better not to think. Painful. Safer. 

Better not to notice that the beast desired him. Ciel didn’t know what it might want from him, but he could imagine. 

Didn’t need to imagine. He’d had worse.

He groaned into his folded arms.

How could he have said such a thing in Sebastian’s hearing? He’d lowered himself enough to speak of it-- his history, his dishonour, and he _never_ spoke of it. He never even let his fingers stray to the glossy swell of the long-healed brand on his back, not even when he wrapped his arms around his aching body as he breathed too hard, too fast, waking in the night.

They did not mention that day, their meeting, their contract, he and his servant, any more than they might remark in the morning that the sky is above and the earth is below. They skirted the silent core of it in silence. 

If it hadn’t been for _that_ , what they’d found last month beneath the Baron’s house, he wouldn’t even be thinking of such--

Stupid. 

He’d opened himself to the demon’s contempt, and worse, to its sickening flash of understanding. As if he’d wanted a show of emotion from his servant. He despised his own weakness. Despised it, almost as much as he despised this shaken need to lay it bare.

It hadn’t even been what Ciel had meant, standing in the hallway: he’d opened his mouth to say _You cannot frighten me; I know what you are._

Or perhaps, _You have no power to hurt me_. 

Or _I thought that I could trust you_ , or _you have no right to question the Earl of Phantomhive_. 

Or _I never wanted this_. _This, any of this. What you’ve done. What you’re doing to me._

It didn’t matter. All of those things were lies. 

Ciel bit at his jacket-sleeve. He would be wary. He needed to find his balance.

 _Never._

He would never speak the truth. 

_Never._

_I have never had anything worse than you. Sebastian._

  
  


****************

The demon obeyed his master’s order; he did not disturb the earl until morning tea time.

He’d finished the morning cleaning quickly enough, and was in the kitchen washing his gloved hands at the stone scullery sink when he heard Agni’s steps coming down the service corridor outside. Sebastian dried his fingers on the linen dishcloth thoughtfully, pressing the moisture from his gloves. 

‘It is a good day,’ said Agni’s voice behind him. ‘Finny has grown cucumbers.’

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian, without turning. ‘Although I suspect it might be more accurate to say that Finny _neglected to destroy_ them.’

‘Ah,’ said Agni, and Sebastian could hear the smile in his warm voice. ‘You are very cynical, I fear.’

‘Cynical,’ said Sebastian, ‘isn’t even the half of it.’ He turned, giving the khansama a small smile in return, one of the quieter smiles that almost anyone would mistake for pleasantness, and watched the man unpack the wicker basket. _Lots_ of cucumbers from the hothouse.

‘I will make my Prince a cucumber salad. I think he will like it.’

‘My young lord despises cucumbers,’ said Sebastian. Absently, and then he paused. And reached across the marble counter and took one of the things from Agni’s chopping board. Stripe-skinned, malachite-green. He hefted it in his hand. 

‘Take one if you need it, my friend,’ said Agni. 

Pointless human mannerisms; he’d already taken it. But Sebastian was feeling indulgent suddenly, so he smiled again.

‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will.’

At half-past ten he rapped lightly on the study door and entered. He didn’t wait for an answer. He knew he was expected.

The earl barely raised his head from his paperwork. ‘Put it on the desk there.’

‘Yes, sir.’

The demon glanced over as he set down the tea-cup. His master’s finger was stained with ink, the slim middle one, black over the knuckle, and he was frowning over his work, as serious as any school-boy snagged on his Latin conjugations. One could almost imagine it, if one ignored the fact that he was reviewing Funtom’s projected sales for summer: a child ten minutes away from making a decision that could cost him half a million pounds.

‘Prince Soma wished to go riding with you this morning, sir, and I informed him that your time was quite taken up today.’

‘Good,’ said the earl. ‘I will see him off after my French lesson.’ 

Sebastian had chosen the Coalport tea-service for his master this afternoon; creamy duck-egg blue and delicate gilt-edged roses, though it was nowhere near rose-season in the garden. Perhaps it was the blue colour that had informed his decision in front of the china cabinet; it was the colour that the sky should be, _would_ be, somewhere, miles above the gathering damp clouds. Even a demon could tire of the endless wet.

He slid the little sky-blue plate across the desk as the tea-pot brewed. And waited; and began to pour.

‘Sebastian.’

‘My lord.’ _And here. It begins._

‘What the devil is this?’

‘Cucumber sandwiches, sir.’

‘I don’t want sandwiches.’

‘I removed the crusts.’

‘I don’t want sandwiches.’

‘I did not mishear, my lord.’ Sebastian wiped a drip of tea from the saucer with his linen napkin.

‘And the cake is...where?’

‘In the kitchen, sir.’

‘We do have some, then.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ Sebastian brushed off his gloved hands. ‘Apple and cinnamon. I made it this morning.’

‘Why isn’t it here?’

‘There was no room on the plate beside the sandwiches.’

The boy was looking up at him. His pink mouth was tight as a plush-covered button. ‘Don’t mess me about. I don’t _want_ sandwiches. Take them away and bring me something better.’ 

Sebastian bowed. ‘The cucumbers are fresh from the estate’s hothouses this morning. We must support the food production of our own property, my lord; and in this cool weather, fresh produce is in short supply. Wastage is not an appropriate habit to demonstrate, sir.’

And the boy was swallowing it. His demands. His pride. His servant’s excuses. Delicious to watch.

‘Very well, then.’ The earl huffed sharply. ‘Do better for afternoon tea.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

Sebastian left his master’s study, and the discontented small boy at his heavy work. The earl would find no happiness today, not even the smallest scrap of it. Not if the demon had any control over the matter.

Which he did. 

Sebastian smiled.

He held the reins. He always had. The boy simply needed to remember it.

****************

‘Young master, sir,’ came Mey-rin’s voice up the stairs. ‘Mrs Rodkin is here for your lessons.’

And she was, too, and it was half-past two, and Ciel huffed.

No cake for morning tea; leek and sodding potato pie for lunch. Not even bacon in it. And now _lessons._

He made his way to the library slowly.

He’d been enjoying the break since his return from the last mission. Lessons seemed pointless today. Any day, really. He hardly expected to live long enough to reach his majority. A dry sort of irony; his day was scheduled rigorously, to the minute, and this time next year he could be dead and buried.

Quite peacefully buried.

Ciel took his place at the study table with a sigh. The rain was coming over again, he could see it through the small-paned windows. Perhaps Prince Soma was right. It would be rather nice to blame one’s mood upon the weather, and nothing else.

Mrs Rodkin was small, plump, elderly, deceptively sweet; most of her other young pupils were female, apparently, and someone at some point had convinced her that boy children were irredeemably vile.

Many of them are, of course, and Ciel was quite certain he was one of the damned. But her assumption remained an offensive one.

She was watching Ciel suspiciously over her wire-framed spectacles as she went through his textbook exercises. 

‘You have used the feminine form of the adjective in no less than three of your sentences. It must be _noirs_ with no _e_ , my lord.’

‘I thought it was pronounced the same,’ said Ciel. ‘Sorry.’ You have to use your manners with most adults, or they get quite bothered and mark your work unfairly, even when your answers are correct.

‘It is pronounced the same,’ said Mrs Rodkin. ‘But it’s spelt quite differently. You must watch your adjectives very carefully, my lord.’

‘I don’t think they’re going anywhere,’ muttered Ciel; and that’s the nice thing about humans. Especially oldish ones: they are quite deaf. Sebastian might have pretended not to hear that but he would have, if he’d been sitting at the table here instead. Probably he _could_ hear it from the kitchen now.

Ciel sighed and rested his chin on his folded hands. 

‘Have you finished page eighty-four, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘No. Nearly.’ He picked up his pencil again. ‘We have reviewed this before.’

‘And we are reviewing it again, my lord.’

‘Is this much grammar entirely necessary?’ 

‘Grammar is the foundation of any language, my lord,’ said Mrs Rodkin thinly. ‘It is not up for negotiation.’

‘My spoken French is rather good.’ Which was true. Ciel didn’t have much hope, though; the woman was almost as ruthless as he was. 

‘Your butler thought it necessary that you review the last few months of your work.’

 _The prick. The utter prick._

‘Of course he did,’ Ciel muttered. 

_My butler knows my French is as good as his already. He didn’t tell you I’ve been speaking it since I was three. He didn’t tell you very much at all._

Mrs Rodkin’s watery eyes were almost squinched closed. ‘Mr Michaelis seems very concerned for the quality of your education. Your curriculum is encyclopedic.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. ‘Encyclopedic is the word.’ 

No, not quite; he’d already checked the twenty-five volume Britannica that sat on the shelf behind Mrs Rodkin’s bonneted grey head, and it didn’t even have an entry for _Insufferable Bastard Butler._

It had been last Christmas holidays, and Ciel had been very bored. 

But he _had_ found a fascinating handful of pages in Volume Seven, tucked between _Demoivre, Abraham (1667-1754)_ and _De Morgan, Augustus (1806-1871)._

 _The word demon is from the Greek_ _daimōn, the etymology of which is too doubtful to explain its original signification._ No surprises there. Doubtful indeed; it wouldn't be easy, would it, to find out what the creature was. No simple set of directions: _in order to control one’s demon safely, one must:_ what? One must not provoke them, probably. One must not tease their body until that dangerous hot little glow came into their eyes and they were forced to lower their long lashes in a show of deference. Or didn’t even bother hiding it, and stared back with poisonous defiance.

No clear rules to bind a devil safely. 

Which was only a problem if one wanted to be safe.

The encyclopedia article had been fairly detailed, though. There had been a rambling bit about demonic possession and tribal beliefs; demons were blamed for all manner of diseases and afflictions. Not unfairly, if Sebastian was telling the truth about the Black Plague. Which he must be: he didn’t lie. Did he?

Then there had been some nonsense about demons being nothing more than ghosts; clearly wrong; the butler downstairs had never been a man. He’d never given anything worth keeping. He’d never lost anything worth having. He came from a place that was not this place. There was one snippet about succubi and incubi, _nocturnal demons who consort with women and men in their sleep._ Oh? Dull. Better to be awake for that. And then back to the usual gibberish about Satan and plagues of locusts and fallen angels and oh, an interesting note: in early religions, a demon wasn’t necessarily evil; only _other_ ; between man and god, for good or ill. 

Interesting, and utter shite. Not evil. Who’d even written that? They’d never seen that writhing puddle of shadow, an animalistic darkness, a flux of living horror. They’d never felt its touch. What would they have written if they had?

They’d never seen Sebastian take a man’s head in his white-gloved hands and press the skull in, _pop pop squelch_ , and smile up at his master through the spray of blood across his face. Like a puppy who drops a broken bird’s-corpse on the doorstep and stands wagging. 

What would it look like, a creature that cared for neither good nor evil, only its own monstrous self?

_‘J'espère que tu fais attention.’_

‘I _am_ paying attention,’ said Ciel. 

He sighed. Mrs Rodkin addressed him using _tutoi_ , a form of speech reserved for pets and children, or used between equals; and he still had to use the respectful _vous_ when he spoke to her, though he was a lord and she was an irritating old French teacher. The distinction was unfair.

Ciel didn’t say that, though. 

He said something else instead, under his breath, as he began to correct his seventh page of adjectives: ‘ _Je déteste chaque partie de toi_.’ 

_I hate every bit of you._

And in case the demon should misunderstand him, two floors down and eighteen rooms over, standing in the kitchen: ‘ _Toi. Sebastian._ ’

  
  


*******************

There was a break in the rain.

Ciel leaned against the hallway window, spreading his warm fingers on the cold glass, and watched the fog of his own heat creep across it. 

The Prince’s coach had arrived from London and was crunching on the gravel driveway down below, although Soma didn’t seem quite ready to leave yet; he was in the yellow drawing room downstairs, playing the piano. Ciel corrected himself. Playing _with_ the piano. The laboured clunk of sound reached him even up here in the hallway above the manor doors.

Sebastian was waiting down there, outside, at the bottom of the front steps. He was addressing the coachman, and the steaming horses were stopping, and the carriage too; and his butler was saying something to the horses, and pausing to rest his hand against one of the strong dark necks.

And Agni was bringing the Prince’s travel trunks out, lugging them down the front steps. Soma had twice as much luggage as Ciel did when he travelled, although God knows what he was taking with him. 

Sebastian had turned away from the horses and was saying something to Agni. Agni was laughing, but that meant very little; the man laughed at everything. It wasn’t as annoying as one might imagine, either. There were worse people to have around the place. At least the khansama mostly listened; not like Soma, who would jump like a distracted cat at every passing idea.

They were loading the trunks.

Agni was handing them up, and they were all settling the heavy travel chests in the luggage rack of the carriage, with the London coachman lumbering in his big caped coat, and the drape of Agni’s white turban catching in the stiff wind, and Sebastian, slim and black and elegant, leaping down from the coach in one long step.

Show-off.

Agni said something.

And then Sebastian was smiling back at Agni, shaking his head with an odd little dismissive toss. Standing with his white-gloved hands behind his back. Square on the front steps, laughing, and Ciel turned away from the window. 

He rarely saw it now, that hateful arrogant face Sebastian still carried sometimes when he wasn’t hushed and patient and pretending to be listening. The demon rarely let him see it. Ciel hadn’t forgotten, though, how the thing had looked at him, its pulse of laughter shivering black as he still crouched in his cage. How it looked at him as they forged their contract, regarding him coolly across the table. Seated beside an altar and a body; someone’s body, bloodied. The wrong someone.

He hadn’t forgotten the demon’s impatient fingers. Tapping at the table’s edge as he waited for his master to stop crying _again_.

He wouldn’t forget these things.

Sebastian carried himself more carefully these days. He’d learned to wear his humanity more comfortably; learned that most humans do not carry a hovering smile as they gouge dripping eyes and tear ribs from a screaming chest.

He’d smiled at Agni from the steps, smiled lightly as a child might. Is this how he still behaved when his master wasn’t present?

Ciel had no way of guessing. He wasn’t about to go down to the kitchens and see for himself. He’d never been allowed down there, even back when-- back _when_. And it had been busier then, too, with the scullery girls and the valets and the whole team of housemaids, and Tanaka clapping his hands sharply and Mrs Garrett the cook with her cap on crooked and-- 

He didn’t go down to the kitchens now. They were quiet, almost empty. The whole house was. Even with the servants living here now, and Tanaka back where he belonged, dozing in the steward’s office. It was still silent.

Sebastian, though. Ciel took one last glance out the window before he turned back away down the hall to find Soma. 

The butler took up quite a lot of room for a creature so vaporously concealed.

He heard the prince calling before he even got downstairs.

‘We’re leaving!’

Ciel stopped at the bottom of the staircase. ‘So I noticed.’ 

‘You are going to be so _lone_ ly, Ciel!’

And Soma looked quite serious, too, standing in the front foyer-- a splash of colour beside Agni, the pair of them bright as jewels against the sober black-and-white floor-- shining with that wide and rather overwhelming exuberance. 

Ciel sighed. _Lonely._ The Prince’s mind was not designed for irony. It was still worth a try, though. ‘I shall be unspeakably lonely,’ he said, ‘but I have every confidence that I shall survive in this empty house regardless.’

No; not a flicker. He thought Sebastian was smiling, though, standing quietly behind Agni.

The prince held out his arms. ‘I am going to _miss_ you, Ciel.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel carefully. Soma was prone to unnecessary shows of physical affection and it paid to be alert at times like these. Hellos, and farewells, or whenever the Prince was especially happy. Or particularly upset. He was indiscriminately emotional, really.

‘May I come and visit you again soon?’

‘Of course.’ Ciel tucked his hands in his pockets. The Prince would turn up anyway, whether he allowed it or not. He might as well look gracious for once.

‘Agni and I always enjoy staying here. Don’t we, Agni?’ The khansama bowed low at the Prince’s side. ‘And the garden is so very beautiful.’

‘No thanks to Finny,’ said Ciel, and he caught Sebastian's sigh. ‘The garden is full of bare twigs and mud at the moment.’

‘Oh, but the daffodils are very nice. Good _bye_ , Ciel!’ 

Damn.

Soma’s embrace was tight and enthusiastic and Ciel let himself hang limply. If one plays dead, the thing will drop one’s lifeless body soon enough. Nobody appeared to have ever told the Prince such a thing, though, and Ciel was fairly sure he felt his scrabbling toes leave the ground before Soma finally released him.

‘Indeed.’ Ciel tugged his jacket straight. Sebastian was smiling cattishly.

Soma sighed. ‘You _must_ let me come and see you as soon as you are finished with this business. Easter? When is Easter?’

‘Six weeks? Months away.’

‘End of April,’ murmured Sebastian.

‘End of April,’ said Ciel.

The Prince frowned. ‘Is Easter suitable?’

‘It’s fine.’

‘ _What_ is Easter?’

‘Really,’ said Ciel, ‘I don’t have time for this. Safe travels on the road.’

He had to endure another two hugs before the Prince was finally ready, and Sebastian was holding the door open.

And the echoes seemed impossibly loud, voices in the foyer and on the steps outside, and Ciel realised that without Soma and Agni, the house was going to be very empty indeed; empty for ten days, until the guests arrived at his doorstep for their weekend in the country, for wine and hunting and billiards and certain murder; empty apart from the demon, of course, who took up far too much space beneath its roof. 

His shadow filled every room. 

‘Well,’ said Sebastian when he came back up the steps and inside. There was a rich ring of satisfaction in his voice. ‘At least we shall be able to do some proper work now, sir.’

‘I had plenty of work already today,’ said Ciel. Stiffly enough that it wouldn't sound like a childish complaint. ‘Two hours of French grammar.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian, and it really shouldn’t have sounded like a purr. 

‘And you.’ Ciel looked at him. ‘Are you busy this afternoon?’

‘Of course, sir.’ The butler had the gall to look patient _._ ‘We shall lose half a day tomorrow on reconnaissance in the city, and there are preparations to make at the manor here.’ He almost seemed annoyed. But Sebastian was always annoyed that he couldn’t just go and do these things himself. As if Ciel should trust him, off on his own. ‘I must begin the evening’s meal, and subdue a rather formidable amount of ironing. If there is something that my lord requires of me, however--’ 

Sebastian left it half a question, and tilted his head with a careful flicker in his eyes. Warm, hungry. Liquid, rippling. A distillation of depravity, and Ciel swallowed.

‘Of course there is,’ he said. ‘You still haven’t mucked out the stables. I expect to be obeyed, you know.’

And Ciel turned and went back upstairs to the library, back to the long half-lit room that smelled of damp and paper and wood-polish and was nearly, _nearly_ the smell he remembered from a time when he’d been too small to reach the pull-cord of the light-switch. 

He would keep his balance.

He would read, and not think about anything at all. 

He could mistake this feeling, if he tried. He could pretend he wasn’t afraid to meet his butler’s eyes.


	5. supra {above}

His master rang for tea at four, and the service bell that rolled and jingled on the kitchen wall beside Sebastian was labelled _Library._

As if he needed a signal to know where the hungry little heartbeat was.

The butler had the tea-service waiting on the tray already, the Wedgwood jasperware: clean snowy figures like a classical frieze on the breathtaking blue slip beneath. His master would appreciate the delicacy of the fluttering robes, the elegant figures. The silhouette of the columns in the relief. The small horned goats, still leaping as they were led to slaughter.

He smiled on the staircase.

‘You’re late.’

‘Ah.’ Sebastian didn’t even glance at the clock on the mantelpiece as he entered. ‘I don’t believe so, my lord; but perhaps the clock needs winding. It is almost two minutes slow, I think. This wet weather is harsh on delicate mechanisms.’

His master still did not deign to reply as Sebastian began to serve his afternoon tea; the boy was pretending to read, with his pointed chin propped up on his folded fist. His soft hair falling over his eye. Cross-legged in the chestnut leather club chair, the princeling. He was sour about being given the extra homework, quite likely. As he should be.

‘You will have a busy few days of organisation once we receive the news from London tomorrow, sir. It will take some planning to ensure your lessons are not neglected.’

‘Yes.’ Icy. 

Oh dear, sir. Quite a sulk. ‘I’m sure the Undertaker will be pleased to see you again, my lord.’

A shrug. 

‘It must be quite pleasant for him to have a visitor with a pulse.’

Silence.

‘May I ask what payment you intend to give him this time?’

‘No,’ said the earl coldly, but he turned his head, very slightly. ‘He still owes us from last time. He was paid in return for nothing at all; I think he can afford a favour for free.’

‘I see,’ said the demon again. 

He hadn’t seen, of course. The Earl had ordered him not to look. Sebastian had been put outside to wait like a dog at the door. But he had heard, in the long silence from the workshop within; no laughter at all from the Undertaker, only rough low breathing, and a quiet scuffle, and his master’s squeak.

The Earl would have called for his servant if he’d had need of it. If it had turned out to be worse than he’d expected, more than he was willing to give, but Sebastian had still been surprised; the boy didn’t like to be touched. Not a beggar's hand at his coat-hem or his fiancee’s warm embraces. To endure the mortician’s sharp-nailed hand, then, the wandering fingers under his shirt, over his throat, the breath too close to his cheek-- well. To allow it out of lust is one thing. To allow it out of pride is another, and Sebastian hadn’t been sure which he found more reprehensible, or more delightful.

When Sebastian had re-entered, the boy had looked rumpled as a whipped puppy, standing there without his greatcoat on. Rolling down his shirt-sleeves. Furiously flushed. Determined not to speak of it, either; which was certainly pride. To permit anything at all, though, the boy who wanted no other body near him-- perhaps it had been something more, after all. He hadn’t done it for Queen and country.

Both need and pride, then. Both. The little lord was torn, and would be until he had decided. 

‘I trust your lessons with Mrs Rodkin went well today, sir.’ 

Silence.

Sebastian touched his gloved fingers to the side of the scalding tea-pot. Testing, testing. ‘Your French is improving quite nicely, sir.’

This time his master huffed. ‘ _C'est ça?_ I hadn’t noticed.’ Drily as he waved his slim little fingers at the low library table beside him. ‘Tea. I’m waiting.’

The demon reached for the little porcelain jug. ‘Are you taking milk this afternoon?’

‘Yes.’

The clear tremble of amber tea within the cup clouded as Sebastian poured and stirred. Milky; tannin-tinted. Pale as raw spun silk. The precise colour of the skin across his master’s smooth throat. The demon was tempted to say so and then watch the boy’s skin cloud and colour as the tea had. He did not.

Sebastian handed over the cup. 

The earl took it carefully in his small steady fingers and cast his quick eyes over the pattern before he sipped. Trees and pillars and figures. ‘Hmph,’ he said. ‘Wedgwood. What is this design, an oracle?’

Sebastian smiled at him. ‘A pagan sacrifice, my lord.’ 

‘Hmph,’ said the boy again. And put down his tea-cup. ‘It matches my jacket, anyhow.’

And it did. Matched his eye, too, actually, and Sebastian frowned back at his tray. The clear blue colour, serene, unclouded. Precisely the tint of his master’s gaze.

He must remember to choose something yellow tomorrow morning.

‘I think Mrs Rodkin was content with your grammar revision, sir.’

‘Don’t speak to me when I’m reading.’ The earl was bent over his book again. ‘ _Plus de sucre._ ’

Sebastian dipped his head as he reached for the sugar-bowl. ‘ _Comme tu veux._ ’

_As you wish._

And the boy noticed, as the demon had expected.

‘You’re addressing me with _tutoie,_ now _._ ’ The earl looked up from his book. Arrogant as you please, that pretty blue eye. ‘I wasn’t aware I’d given you permission.’ 

‘Ah.’ Sebastian was entirely occupied with spooning sugar but he gave a slight frown to indicate that of course, he would have bowed if it were at all possible. ‘Apologies, my lord. I must have misunderstood.’ 

‘It’s you who needs a grammatical brush-up.’

‘It was you who addressed me thus this afternoon, during your lesson. Did you not, sir?’ 

_Toi. Sebastian._

‘Oh. You did hear.’ The earl did not look concerned as he licked his index finger lightly and turned a page.

‘I miss very little, particularly if my name is mentioned, my lord.’ He could no more miss it than he could ignore a needle pressing deep into his flesh. But it would not be wise to explain.

‘I shall address you as I please. I am your employer.’

Sebastian looked at him. The boy was looking at his book. 

But the demon was not quite ready for silence yet. ‘I was not aware that you referred to your servants in such--’ he paused-- ‘familiar terms, my lord.’

‘I don’t. Only the dog.’ 

Oh, the primness of his spoilt little face.

‘You would employ language as a restraint, my lord?’

‘It’s as good a collar as any. Grammar is the foundation of a civilisation, apparently,’ said the boy, and he flicked Sebastian a glance from under the shadow of his dark hair. ‘It’s only words. Are you objecting?’

‘I am querying, sir.’

‘Don’t,’ said the boy. ‘You belong to me.’

And Sebastian tucked his aching hands behind his back and curled them tightly. A press of one black fingernail could slit the corner of that delicious sour mouth. _It’s only words._ Words shouldn’t sting him like a scorpion’s tail. They shouldn’t rouse his body like a touch. 

It didn’t help at all that the words were true.

‘I see, sir. It denotes ownership, then.’

‘Of course. You wear the livery of my house.’

‘ _Your_ house, sir?’ 

The boy flushed slowly, beautifully, his eyes downcast and fixed upon his page. ‘The Phantomhive house. My livery, my house, my _butler_ \--’ He looked up, his blue gaze wide and dangerous. 

‘Yes, sir.’ Sebastian met the cold face steadily. ‘Your contract.’ He raised his gloved left hand. He could feel the skin of it grow warm beneath the white cotton, a crackle like the electricity that hummed though the telephone wires and buzzed in the distant storm-clouds.

‘Precisely.’ The boy was looking at him with a nasty flicker of triumph. ‘Is that not ownership?’

‘Yes.’ _Oh, yes._ Sebastian permitted his master a smile as he bowed. One of his best smiles, the slow ones that began in the corners of his lips and always seemed to disturb the mortals most; any mortal. This little one in particular. ‘Yes, sir. It would appear that you own me. Utterly, my lord. Irrevocably.’ He permitted his voice to soften. ‘Almost as completely as I own you.’

The boy looked at him. Set down his tea-cup. His voice was thin as sheet-ice. ‘My seal binds your obedience.’

‘Yes.’ Sebastian let no trace of warmth linger in his low voice. ‘And my seal binds your soul.’

They looked at each other. 

His master was breathing too fast; Sebastian could see the jump of the silk bow at the slim pulsing throat. Did the boy ever feel something shiver through his eye when he called his servant’s name? He must. It would burn him. Foolish child, to have given so much for this and still be bound by it.

Sebastian wondered what it was the earl was thinking to cause that terrible small darkness in the boy’s gaze.

*****************

The boy was wondering too. 

He could feel the burn in his silk-covered eye that somehow told him more than all the vision in the world, and he wondered if his servant could feel the same hum through his seal as he could. The same coldness in his bones. The same ache in his chest.

It was silent in the library. 

And perhaps that was balance. A still point, poised on the knife-blade as they looked at each other. Perhaps neither was sure which way things would tip.

‘Give me my bloody cake,’ said Ciel, and he looked away. 

‘Sir,’ said the demon, and he placed the little plate on the wide curved leather arm of Ciel’s chair.

Ciel looked at it. Sliced apples, bright skins green and golden and rose-red. He took a deep breath.

‘This isn’t cake at all.’

‘Your powers of observation positively dazzle me, young master.’ Sebastian didn’t even turn to face him. His beautiful profile was sharp and remote as the silhouette of a mountain.

‘I told you to give me cake for afternoon tea.’ Ciel folded his arms. The beast would not walk away from this.

‘With respect, my lord--’ and never had a voice dripped so richly, so utterly unconcerned-- ‘you did not. You told me to do better. _Better_ is a judgement, and I applied mine.’

‘Apples.’

‘Indeed.’

‘Apples.’

‘Repeating yourself won’t make them disappear, my lord.’

And that was it.

Ciel’s fingers dug into his folded arms. ‘Do I need to stick you with a fork?’

‘Your teeth were quite sufficient, my lord,’ said the demon; ‘perhaps we can save something for tomorrow.’ 

Enough. _Enough_ , and Ciel stood up from his chair. 

‘Sebastian. Here.’ Shortly, as he might command a dog. 

‘Yes, sir.’ The demon seemed to barely stifle his sigh as he crossed the faded rug to his master. His fine pale face was set in a show of boredom. ‘If you do intend upon using the fork, sir, I would request only that you allow me to roll up my shirt-cuff before we begin. Blood stains are quite a nuisance to remove.’

Oh, that was almost tempting. The silver cake-fork glittering tine-deep in Sebastian’s bloodied flesh. 

But no, not yet, not now; and Ciel leaned back against his chair. Began to unbutton his shorts, and wondered if Sebastian could see his fingers trembling. The buttons were stiff. He was too slow. He could feel himself half-hard already at the thought of this. The demon’s eyes on him. The shorts came open, finally, properly, and dropped to his feet. He kicked them off.

And he pushed himself back onto the wide curved leather arm of the club chair, and sat straddling the edge of it, and Sebastian looked down at him. Alert. _Now you’re paying attention, aren’t you? Demon scum._

‘Kneel,’ said Ciel.

The butler did so, silently. Watchful as a cat, now. His long eyes were liquid, half-lidded with wariness, and they flicked over Ciel, his hands and face and naked dangling legs. Between them.

‘Closer,’ said Ciel. 

Sebastian moved on his knees. Ciel’s hands were level with the broad black woollen shoulders.

‘Now,’ said Ciel. ‘Suck.’ And his mouth felt thick as though it brimmed with honey. 

Sebastian was silent. Then he adjusted his tie. ‘Well,’ he said. Was he hesitating? ‘You have surprised even me, sir.’ And it was strange, his little glance up. 

Ciel looked down at him coldly. ‘Shut up,’ he said. ‘As if I haven’t told you to do it before.’ That wasn’t true. He’d never before ordered the creature to do this, not with its mouth. He’d simply failed to tell it to stop. It was nearly the same.

‘Not in precisely these circumstances, young master,’ said Sebastian. ‘Not as punishment.’ And his eyes were unspeakably bright and unpleasant.

That much was true. That was the entire bloody point. 

‘Are you going to disobey me?’

‘No, young master,’ said the demon, and Ciel felt his arousal swell, a flutter, just watching the flare of Sebastian’s fine nostrils.

The butler’s gloved fingers settled lightly on Ciel’s parted knees. And then slid slowly to his stockinged ankles, too slowly, and Ciel felt a funny shiver in the small of his back. It was good, though. This was how it was supposed to be; he was secure, calm, perched above his demon, and he closed his eyes as the dark head bent low for him.

The lovely angry lips enveloped him. Hot, sudden.

He sighed. It was delicious. His servant’s obedience and the first touch of his mouth. His soft lips. Ciel couldn’t deny the beast was good at this. A demon would have long enough to practise, likely.

It was good, very good, and Sebastian was taking his time, moving carefully, and the excitement in Ciel’s stomach was settling lower, deeper. It was different, though. Why was it different? 

He opened his eyes again.

Of course the demon had done this to him before. But it wasn’t the same and his stomach clenched. He was splayed in daylight, here. He could see precisely what Sebastian’s unclean mouth was doing. Could see himself, the base of his own bare cock, and he wasn't sure he liked that. And the beast was looking up at him, and his wet lips were curled in a brutal smile.

Ciel wanted to look away from the gaze. He didn’t.

Sebastian moved his mouth away and dabbed at Ciel’s dangling shaft with the very tip of his long pale tongue. And swirled it around the thickening base of him, and lapped wetly like a monstrous cat. A long tongue, pointed. Thick. Twining. 

Ciel’s throat was tight and he cleared it roughly. He hoped it sounded like irritation. ‘Not like that,’ he said, and the demon blinked his long wicked eyes. 

‘Not like what, sir?’ And Sebastian’s brows arched as he licked again at Ciel’s trembling flesh. 

_Not like that. Not like you’re enjoying it._ He couldn’t speak.

Sebastian’s suck was slow, deliberate. Noisy.

Ciel wanted to close his eyes. If he could only look away from it. It was too much, being able to see. Watching the slow movement of the demon’s dark head, heavy against him, nestled between his legs.

Infinitely slow and delicate. The merest flutter of tongue along the underside. Sliding up and down the length, flicking around it, slippery. 

Then harder, and the fasten of teeth close against his body.

The pressure of his servant’s mouth was strong and hard and Ciel curled his nails into his own bare thighs. He wanted to lean forward and hold Sebastian’s shoulders, hold the crisp collar, but the creature would know he needed it, then.

He did. He needed it. How long did the creature plan to take over this? He was straining full already between Sebastian’s lips but he held still, and if he managed another moment he could finish and pretend he hadn’t seen this look of his servant’s, this flutter of his butler’s dark lashes. The sinful gather of his mouth.

Sebastian released Ciel’s ankles to rub him, to press one gloved thumb under his shaft to the soft swell of flesh. Ciel wriggled on the chair-arm. ‘Oi,’ he said, with all the gutter-urchin sharpness he could summon. 

The demon let the shaft slide from his mouth. He didn’t appear to have heard.

He was playing with Ciel’s cock, pulling at the flesh of his tip, pinching between his gloved fingertips. Bright pink inside. 

Ciel winced. He clenched his knees. It was tender and he was helpless and he saw the glistening drop of fluid that swelled obscenely at his own open slit. 

Sebastian licked it up. 

Ciel tried not to moan. 

He was enclosed again. Wet, a slosh of saliva from Sebastian’s pursed lips. Dribbling down Ciel’s cock and tickling hotly at the shiver of flesh underneath them. 

He was breathing shortly. He closed his eyes. It was vile, sumptuous. Harsh, deep. Slow. _Slow._ It was taking too long.

His knees shook against the cool leather and he clenched them, and waited for the swing inside him, the dizzy dip and fall, but the heat sang through him. The demon’s strong tongue loosened, and Ciel gasped. He opened his eyes.

And Sebastian was licking lightly at him again, tip-tongued at the shiny rosy head. Pinching the thickened base and tugging carefully, squeezing. Pulsing, that hot cruel mouth on his body. Liquid through his legs.

Ciel was trying not to squeak but it was so close, so _close_ and Sebastian didn’t seem to notice. Hot behind his knees. He was wiggling his toes inside his shoes. 

And he panted, out loud, and the demon’s eyes flickered.

It knew. It knew exactly what it was doing to him.

Ciel moaned. Low and soft and not for the hungry mouth that taunted him. He bit hard at his lip to keep the words in. It was there in his throat, in his head already whispering and he didn’t want to say it, the beast would _smile_ at him if he said it. If he asked for it.

Sebastian said nothing. There was a flash of a question in the brows he raised, though, and he didn’t even need to speak.

_One would almost imagine there was something you wanted._

Ciel made a noise. Stifled it. He would say nothing either.

And Sebastian bent his head again, to suck the dribble of his own saliva from the side of Ciel’s trembling shaft. And ran his tongue over the swollen tip, flicking, slow. So slow. And showed the glitter of his sharpened teeth, and _nipped_ , the _bastard_ , and turned aside to suck at Ciel’s thigh. 

Ciel tried not to rock. Tried not to flinch.

Sebastian’s eyes were molten fierce when he looked up again. Oh, that bestial suck and lap of his mouth, the heavy glisten of his eyes as they raised to taunt Ciel and lowered again, dark-lashed, half-closed in the creature’s own vile show of pleasure. The demon's chin was wet when he finally took Ciel’s shaft between his lips again. Deeper, deeper, and the dripping mouth enclosed him.

Sebastian made a sound. A disgusting moan, a carnal shudder deep in his throat. 

Ciel’s body ached with it. Terrible. Immense. If the beast were to ask him now for something. Anything-- 

He steadied himself, put out his hand. Curled his fingers into Sebastian’s solid shoulder. His other hand fisted at his mouth. He bit his knuckles. 

And rocked in, gasping. It was pleasure, tumbling vast pleasure and he needed more of it, all of it, and he pushed deep into Sebastian’s mouth. He was almost sobbing when the pressure curled behind his eyes, blinding, black, and he shook with it. Moaned with it. Heard his own needy sounds and couldn’t even stop them as Sebastian’s hot tongue gulped at the quiver of his climax.

Rocking, trembling. Adrift. The darkness was absolute.

He breathed. The demon’s hands were hot around his ankles. He breathed again. He was shaky. His legs were cold. 

Sebastian was sitting back on his heels, then. 

Ciel hated every one of his cool deliberate movements. 

The butler felt in the breast-pocket of the black tailcoat. Tugged out a folded handkerchief between two fingers. Pressed it to his lips. 

And even then Ciel might have been able to manage it if the bastard had been able to shut _up_.

‘Well,’ said Sebastian, and his quick little sigh was one of satisfaction in a job done properly. ‘Better, sir?’

Ciel tried to swallow. He felt suddenly vilely exposed, spread-legged on the chair-arm while his servant knelt clothed and tidy at his feet. How could he do this? How did the beast manage to do it to him, pull the world from under him?

‘I suppose,’ he said. It sounded calm enough. He hoped. ‘It was hardly the most efficient method of doing things.’ 

Sebastian looked up at him. ‘That very much depends upon what we were attempting to achieve, my lord.’

Weeks. _Months_ he’d wanted to find something. To hold the point where their understanding met, to comprehend something of the beast’s strangeness, its feral mind. He couldn’t. It was beyond him. He should never have forgotten for a heartbeat that the thing was older, viler, more terrible than anything he could hope to match. Its violence was simple in comparison, nearly the most innocent of its sins.

It had done something to him, something repulsive, and it wasn’t the act at all: only the intention. Ciel was understanding things too late.

And it was looking up at him, his demon, this thing, and still it understood him much too well. He felt sick.

The demon shook out his master’s woollen shorts in waiting. ‘Here, sir.’

Ciel didn’t move. He’d rather try to dress himself than endure those hateful hands near him. ‘I’ll do it. You may go.’

‘Allow me to do my job, young master.’

‘Your job is what I tell you. Just get out.’

Sebastian stood up. ‘Sir.’ He leaned down to try and pull Ciel from the chair-arm and Ciel batted sharply at the butler’s hands. And found his own hands caught tight.

‘Bloody--’ Ciel tugged.

‘Sir.’ And Sebastian leaned against the chair and was suddenly much too close, too warm, and Ciel’s face was level with the crisp waistcoat. Pushed against it. His hands were pinned firmly in the demon’s grip as Sebastian bent over him. ‘Allow me to do my job. Sir _._ ’ 

‘Bloody _demon_. Get off--’

‘You wanted this.’ Sebastian’s voice was beside his ear. ‘If you are tired of playing, my lord, you have only to say so.’

Ciel butted his head against the demon’s chest. ‘Get _off_ \--’

Sebastian’s sigh was a sharp breath at his cheek. ‘If you indulge in every game that takes your fancy, you must expect to lose occasionally, sir.’ Softly. ‘I have warned you of this. Mistakes will be painful.’

Ciel’s chest felt tight and fierce and thumping. ‘Why don’t you do as you're _told_?’

‘I am,’ said Sebastian. His voice was a nauseating purr. ‘You told me to suck and I did. Now. Allow me to dress you, sir, before I decide your infantile demands are beyond the bounds of our contract--’ the grip on Ciel’s shaking wrists tightened-- ‘and begin to make stipulations of my own.’

Ciel flinched. His captured hands were pressed against the demon’s body, between Sebastian’s legs, and it was hard and fiercely hot and he wriggled, disgusted, heated, realising what the demon was pushing against his clenched fingers.

Ciel choked. ‘You utter _dog_ \--’ 

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sebastian. ‘Pure mongrel, I’m afraid.’

Ciel could feel it hard beneath the fine black wool, burning like heated iron under his hands. The pulse of the demon’s roused body.

And then Sebastian released him and Ciel sat back, gasping for air, steadied himself, grabbed the hem of his crumpled shirt and pulled it low between his bare legs. He knew he must look flushed. He could feel it in his face. On his neck. And down _there_ , oh gods--

Sebastian’s small smile was malignant. His eyes were not quite as calm as his unruffled pale face.

‘You play well at this, my lord,’ he said. ‘But you must learn to recognise an endgame when it is spread before you.’

The butler dropped his master’s shorts onto the chair beside Ciel and turned away, brushing his white-gloved hands together sharply. 

His footsteps made no sound on the deep faded carpet as he left.

The library door clicked closed.

And Ciel slithered from the arm of the chair, his hands still burning with shame and fury and the heat, the sordid heat of Sebastian’s body, and his legs were shaky and naked and he could hardly breathe. 

He picked up the plate of apple and threw it at the door.

It shattered. The noise was almost beautiful. 

And he stood with his hands curled and his bare legs prickling in the chilly room and hoped the plate had been expensive. Which was stupid. It was his money anyway.

He’d always be the one to pay.

Ciel wondered if he should cry now or wait until he made it to his bedroom.

But the library door was re-opening silently, and Sebastian looked down at the scattered shards of blue across the carpet. 

The butler was silent. He tucked a flick of dark hair thoughtfully behind his ear. And then knelt, and began to gather the pieces of sky-blue porcelain into the palm of his hand. He didn’t look up.

Ciel didn’t make a sound. He only stood there shivering stupidly. Watching as Sebastian tidied. Perfectly. Doing another perfect bloody job before he left again, a sweep of pointed tail-coat at the closing door.

*****************

Tomorrow the little earl would learn a valuable lesson.

The demon pondered as he worked before dinner. 

Tomorrow, once they’d returned from London-- a pointless trip, wasted time, he could do it himself in half an hour if the earl would only let him and save this nonsense visiting the Undertaker, visiting Lau, neither of whom he trusted as far as he could kick their corpses--tomorrow. When he had _time._

Sebastian stifled his growl in the steaming laundry as he dragged the heated clothes iron from the coal of the open fireplace. He tugged off his crisp white glove, curling his bare hand, and put his forefinger to his lips. He sucked at it. Slowly, gently with himself, feeling the ripple of his own touch shimmer through his skin like haze across water. 

Soft tongue. Cool skin. And then firmer, as fiercely as he’d tasted the child’s trembling cock.

He pulled his finger out and dabbed it to the heavy base of the waiting iron. 

The iron hissed in readiness. The perfect temperature. Sebastian touched the metal again, and this time pressed his finger harder. Closed his eyes. The sizzle became silent as the moisture burnt away and then it began to burn him, sharper, piercing, through his tense shoulders and down the shudder of his spine to his angry cock. The laundry air was rank with the sear of flesh.

And harder, until he felt his frail skin blister. Break.

And he sighed, long and slow, and sucked the blackened flavour before he pulled his glove back on. The cotton dragged at his tender fingertip. Sebastian didn’t flinch.

The boy had shaken on the edge of depravity. He’d rutted into his servant’s mouth like a desperate little whore. And his anger at the press of Sebastian’s body hadn’t been simple shock: he’d been stiffening again already at nearness of it. The brat was a hypocrite; he’d only disliked it because he hadn’t been the one to reach out himself and grasp.

Oh, that was a thought. Those hot little fingers trying to grip a proper cock.

Sebastian opened his eyes. The empty laundry shuddered like his mortal skin, like an evening shaken with wind; heavy with a squirm of shadows. The corners crawled with it. The ceiling dripped. His body ached.

His master had provoked this. His master would be the one to relieve it. 

Soon.

The demon tugged his glove on tightly.

There was work to do. Starching; ironing. The pressing of his master’s Valenciennes lace cuffs. 

And Sebastian checked his pocket-watch as he paused in the steaming laundry, as though he might find it there on the clock-face, tucked between the five and the six, between the making of gravy and the serving of the earl’s dinner: counterbalance. Action and reaction. Is that not science? 

Hunger and satiation. 

An inviolable law of the universe.

  
  
  
  
  



	6. praeter {past}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This thing is officially going to be twenty chapters long, as far as I can tell~  
> I don't begrudge a word of it.  
> Kisses and stay safe, kiddos~

The earl was silent at the dinner table that evening. He did not so much as glance in Sebastian’s direction. He ate one bite of the chestnut-glossy breast of roasted pheasant, and two pieces of potato. He didn’t touch the carrots.

The demon took great care to brush his master’s bare knee accidentally as he spread the linen napkin over the narrow blue lap. He didn’t make a mention of the boy’s half-buttoned fly. Didn’t even smile, not one that showed; poor silly thing, were those spoilt little fingers too useless to manage even his own shorts?

When Sebastian cleared his master’s plate for dessert, he saw the earl’s gaze move towards the butler’s trolley, and saw it harden as his servant set the dish of dessert in front of him. The sparkling cut-glass bowl full of pale poached apples. A small dollop of Chantilly cream. An impertinent sprig of mint. 

The boy didn’t even pick up his spoon before he pushed the bowl away. He didn’t need to taste it to know it was unsweetened.

He didn’t ring for tea, in his study afterwards, and as Sebastian ran the bathwater at half-past eight he wondered how long the boy intended to hold his silence.

‘What time will you have the coach prepared tomorrow?’

Well, then. Sebastian glanced at his young master standing on the bathmat. The stockinged toes wiggling absently. They were going to talk about work again, were they? Coolly; unconcerned.

But the boy was very good at that. Enclosing. Separating. Compartmentalising. Folding the day away into its tidy little pigeonhole and refusing to hear the scream it made as it the key turned in the lock.

‘Early,’ said Sebastian. If the boy intended to pretend it had been a usual sort of afternoon, then he could oblige him. ‘Nine o'clock, sir.’ He shot his master a look as he slipped off his tailcoat and began to roll up his cuffs. 

_Not all of us sleep until eight. Bard will be awake at five._

_Some of us won’t sleep at all._

‘We won’t be back until after lunch, I suppose.’

‘Likely not, young master.’ 

He was undressing the earl quite properly, but he wondered whether the vexing little thing would have noticed anything anyhow. His master was scarcely paying attention.

‘Pity,’ said the earl. ‘I really would rather not be obliged to eat in London.’

‘I have already booked a table for you at the Savoy, sir. I am sure the quality will be up to even your standards.’ 

‘Hmph,’ the boy said. ‘Not up to yours, though.’ 

Sebastian looked at him. Blinked. 

‘Cancel the Savoy. I’ll have lunch when we return.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Sebastian. ‘Of course.’ 

It was likely another ruse of the earl’s to irritate the careful workings of his butler’s schedule. In other circumstances, though, on any other day, it might have sounded suspiciously close to a compliment.

‘Travelling is inconvenient.’

‘I am forced to agree, my lord.’

‘It would be better if we had all the contacts ourselves, rather than relying on another to gather it for us.’

‘It is only natural to wish to hold all of the cards in one’s own hand, sir.’ Sebastian gave him a thin smile. ‘A business cannot be run without delegation, however.’

‘Delegation requires an element of trust.’ But the earl wasn’t looking at him as he said it, leaning his hand on the edge of the tub as he stepped out of his stockings.

‘The collection of information is a business transaction, not delegation, sir. One does not need to trust in order to collect. And the Undertaker had proved his usefulness before now. His network must be almost as extensive as your own, young master.’

‘Almost. Which reminds me; I must telephone Diedrich about our guest. An eye in Germany will have news of Siemens that even the Undertaker does not.’

‘You intend to trust his information too, then.’

‘He owes it to us,’ said the boy. And stretched his bare neck stiffly as his shirt came off. Sebastian breathed in sharply. The bite he’d left on his master’s skin had darkened like a plummy smear beneath the delicate collar-bone. It had bloomed, a sumptuous flower.

‘He owes it to you, sir?’

‘To the Phantomhives.’ The earl was shuffling out of his shorts. ‘He will do it for my father’s sake. Most of them do.’ Coolly, as though he had no doubt of it. And probably he didn’t, the arrogant little shite.

‘A fine inheritance your father has left you, sir.’ Sebastian let his gaze drop to the tight curve of his master’s pale buttocks. ‘You have quite a collection of useful men who are willing to please you.’

‘Good,’ said the earl, and if he caught the edge in his servant’s tone, he did not react. ‘It might go a little way towards compensating for the rest of his legacy.’ 

Sebastian saw the small fingers curl around the silver rings, the father’s seal and covenant heavy on the child’s hand. And that was the Watchdog’s inheritance, of course; death, and the weight of dealing it. Murder and its shadow of filth. The threat of death for the earl himself, too: this mission. This house, cursed and burnt, a target. The noble name, a target. The boy’s very face, his father’s smile and mother’s eye-lashes-- born into a cloud and raised in dangerment.

And his family, a target. Would they have taken the boy to be bought and sold if he’d borne any other name but this? 

The Phantomhive ring he wore had cost him everything he’d been. And he carried it like the jewel it was. Accursed, and not by demons. 

The demon held out his open palm, and the boy dropped the rings into it before stepping into the waiting bath. 

That bruise was entrancing. That slim body, milk-pale. The boy’s skin almost begged for an open wound. Deep across his belly, a gash deep into his guts. Red-edged like an open rose: the demon knew how prettily his master would wear it. 

‘It is a dangerous inheritance to bear, my lord.’ Sebastian looked away from the tired limbs to the glisten of silver in his hand, and back to the earl’s marred blue eyes.

‘It always has been,’ said the boy. ‘I’m nothing special.’ He shut his pale eyelids, and Sebastian watched his master slip beneath the bathwater. The storm-dark hair swirled suspended, a halo of shadow around his closed white face.

The earl was somewhere far away in his mind that evening. Absent as Sebastian dried him. He blinked as his hair was towelled off, as though he was half in a dream.

The demon tested the boy only once, when he pulled his master’s nightshirt down over the damp small head and settled it: he leaned forwards on his knees, just a little, and did not release the cotton hem from his hands. 

The boy looked at him, cold, tiredly, and tugged his nightshirt away and climbed up onto the bed.

Most unsatisfactory. 

Sebastian ran his tongue slowly over the slick of his teeth as he closed his master’s bedroom door. There was no point trying to torment the thing when he wasn’t even really there. No pleasure at all.

************

Ciel wasn’t sure how long he slept. Between the clammy dreams and the ache in his shoulders and the twisting discomfort in his stomach, it couldn’t have been long; two hours, maybe. And then he realised what was keeping him awake. It was simple hunger.

Stupid. He hadn’t eaten dinner, of course.

If he had any sort of decent servants, he’d ring them now for a cup of hot chocolate and a biscuit. If there was any hope of getting what he wanted.

A plateful of biscuits. The whole jar, if he felt like it. He did feel like it.

Stupid. It was his own bloody house.

He sat up. 

It was going to be cold.

Of course he wouldn’t be able to find anything warm to wear; the fire was bright enough to see his bedroom, but the open door to the dressing room loomed dark and he didn’t want to go in there. But his woollen dressing-gown should be on the chaise longue at the foot of his bed.

He crawled in the dark, and leaned down, and found it. That was something.

And he could almost ignore his chilled bare feet as he climbed off the bed and made his way downstairs.

There were lamps lit on the end tables in the hall; good. And down the endless flights of stairs he followed the glow from each landing below. To the second floor, trying not to look at the long line of portraits that seemed as though they’d been painted from ink and shadow; and the first floor, and the bare high windows showing the sky, cloud-strewn, bright-mooned.

It took so long. Had the place always been this big? And it was very quiet. It was almost like being in a dream. If it wasn’t for his numb toes it could almost be his imagination but no, he was walking here, at night in his own house. 

It must be past midnight, or otherwise they’d all still be tidying the dining room or whatever they did after he went to bed. And he reached the foyer, and paused at the junction.

Down the service corridor. The soft carpet was left behind and it was cold pinewood floor, here. The smells were different in this part of the house; stale, cold. Onions. Mildew. It was like another house altogether, and the darkness didn’t help.

But he was here. It was a relief. He'd been half-afraid he’d taken a wrong turn and how foolish, to be lost in one’s own home. He’d been half-afraid he’d turn a corner and see something he didn’t want to.

But there were only doorways, down here in the kitchens. There were doorways everywhere, store rooms and Tanaka’s office and the nook for the telephone, and the back door to the garden, probably, and a slatted pantry door, and Ciel stopped. He opened it.

A bloodied hanging body and he squeaked. And cursed, and looked again: pale pink hams strung up on butcher’s hooks, and a glistening side of beef, bigger than he was. The meat-store.

He shut the door and kept walking. There was a warm bit of light around the corner. The main kitchen. A big room, and it felt vast in the almost-dark.

There was only one light on, the gas-lamp hanging over the bench, and for an uneasy moment he wondered if Bard was down here. It was late, though. And the room was certainly empty.

The glow showed racks of copper pots, glittering on their racks above the stove, above the counter. Hanging bunches of plants. Edible plants, probably.

It was silent. The air smelt sweet and yeasty, a smell like honey and spilt beer. Warm. Very much warmer; the big iron stove along the back wall must be still going. Or going again. It probably never really cooled down. 

There was a little dish sitting down on the clean pale sandstone floor, right in the circle of light, and it looked like it was full of milk. 

Ciel frowned. Was somebody keeping a cat in the house? He’d ask Sebastian tomorrow. 

The pantry would be over on the far left, he knew that much; he’d seen it the other day when he reviewed the repairs down here. There’d be biscuits in there, surely. 

He found the door and felt inside for the swinging light-switch, and winced as he tugged it and threw the tiny room into sudden glare. And there was a folding wooden step-ladder, and a whole row of promising-looking ceramic jars, big and brown and biscuity-coloured, and even if they were only full of sugar he could lick his fingers, couldn’t he?

Ciel climbed up, holding onto the shelf, and knelt on the sturdy top plank of the step-ladder. He took off the lid of one of the ceramic crocks. Raisins; not biscuits, but good enough for now. He pushed his hand deep into the odd dry pebbly depth of them.

‘Really, sir. You didn’t even put your stockings on.’

Ciel turned on his knees. ‘ _Damn_ you.’ Sebastian was standing in the doorway. ‘What are you doing ?’

‘The same as I usually am at half-past one on a Friday morning, sir. Or did you think the bread simply makes itself?’

And that must be true. Ciel noticed now, the butler’s rolled-up sleeves. The apron tied around his hips and the flour smeared over it.

‘Unlike my lord, I have an excellent reason to be here,’ Sebastian said. ‘Do get down before you kill yourself, young master,’ and he wiped his gloved hands slowly on his apron.

‘I’m perfectly capable,’ said Ciel. He pulled out his fistful of raisins. He was trying to remember it was his house, his orders that mattered, trying not to feel like an idiot perched here barefoot on a ladder in the middle of the night.

‘You really ought not to have come in here, sir.’ 

‘What, the master of the house isn’t allowed into your kitchen?’ Ciel frowned at the butler, and popped a raisin into his mouth.

Sebastian looked at him. ‘Oh, no,’ he said, and he smiled. ‘It isn’t my kitchen. It belongs to the chef, my lord, and he will not be down until breakfast. In the meantime, one touches things at one’s own risk in Bard’s domain.’ The demon stepped up to the bottom of the ladder, and his dark eyes glittered level with Ciel’s as he moved the crock of raisins on the shelf. 

Ciel followed his butler’s movement coolly. There was a stack of plump muslin-wrapped bundles, fat as his arm, tumbled behind the row of canisters. ‘I see,’ Ciel said, peering at the shelf. ‘Bard keeps the sausages in the dry-store. Repulsive, but not exactly frightening. Let me down, won’t you?’

Sebastian didn’t move. ‘That’s gelignite, sir, and if you so much as sneeze at it, the stuff goes up quite dramatically. There’s enough explosives in this pantry to reduce you to a charming little pile of ashes. Come out before you die of something I can’t remedy.’ He tilted his head, an amused sort of look, and Ciel glared back at him. The butler was in his way and Ciel had nowhere to go. 

‘Let me down,’ he said. ‘I can do it myself.’ 

Sebastian plucked at the edge of Ciel’s dressing-gown, twisting his fingers into it. ‘It really would be simpler if you simply ask for help, my lord.’

‘Get off, I’m not messing about.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian thoughtfully. ‘You never are, sir.’

‘Get off,’ said Ciel again, and tugged at his dressing-gown. ‘I am not about to apologise for my lack of _infantile_ \--’

Sebastian let go. 

Ciel flailed. Fell back. Yelped as the demon caught his clothes with one quick hand and pulled him back gasping onto the top of the ladder. 

He gripped tight to the edge of his seat. 

Sebastian was pulling the nightgown straight with a solicitous little _tsk_ of impatience. ‘Truly, sir, you do not appear to take your safety very seriously. Whatever would you do without somebody to catch you?’ He sighed and stepped away. ‘Make haste, now, or I shall never get anything done this evening.’ The arch of his brows was appallingly insolent.

‘That was your fault.’ Ciel climbed down from the ladder, his bare toes cold and stiff on the rungs, and he shot his butler an icy stare. ‘I’ve had about enough of your nonsense.’

‘In that case, my lord, I should be delighted to let you fall next time. I can always appreciate the spectacle of my noble master sprawled helplessly on his impertinent little-- watch your step, sir. Here.’ 

And Sebastian picked up the ladder and was carrying it back out into the kitchen at Ciel’s heels. 

‘What the deuce are you doing?’

‘Providing you with a seat, my lord.’ Sebastian set down the small step-ladder beside the kitchen counter, unfolding it. ‘Unless you would prefer to perch on the bench-top like a child.’

Ciel frowned. ‘That isn’t funny.’ 

‘No, sir.’ Coolly. ‘We have no chairs worthy of an aristocrat down here, I’m afraid; it’s either this or the staff table next door.’

He had a point. Ciel climbed up and seated himself, glancing back awkwardly at Sebastian, but the butler wasn’t watching anyhow; he had switched on another light and taken down a kettle from the shelf above the sink, a glimmering copper thing, and began to fill it.

And stopped, and glanced back at Ciel. ‘I suppose you will be wanting tea, sir.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel, though he hadn’t even thought about it. He might as well, though. He was chilled through. He watched the butler filling the kettle and setting it on the long black cooking range. The stove took up half the wall. 

Sebastian disappeared into one of the store-rooms next door and came back out with a tray set for tea, and began laying out the cup and saucer. A little floral tea-cup patterned with sun-bright flowers. Yellow. Ciel’s least favourite colour, actually, if he considered; it reminded him of daffodils, and buttercups, and all the other things that people were inclined to label _cheerful_ , which happened to be his least favourite word, incidentally.

Ciel settled himself on top of the step-ladder and tucked up his knees beneath the nightgown. ‘Everybody else is still asleep, I suppose.’ More to say something, really. The butler was making no effort at conversation which was understandable, all things considered. Ciel didn’t expect him to be pleasant. His busy abstraction was rather rude, though, as though Ciel’s presence was an interruption here. 

‘Indeed, young master; soundly asleep.’ Sebastian appeared to listen to the house above them. ‘As all sensible humans ought to be.’ He looked back at Ciel. ‘Now. I can only assume there was something you were looking for, down here in the middle of the night.’

‘Biscuits.’

‘Biscuits, you say.’ Sebastian was spooning tea. ‘You didn’t eat your dinner, my lord. What makes you think I will permit you to eat sweets?’ He tilted his dark head. ‘Stolen sweets, of all things.’

Ciel shrugged. ‘I wasn’t waiting for your permission.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. ‘I had noticed.’ The kettle was hissing already and he began to fill the tea-pot, his face wreathed in steam.

Ciel watched. He’d seen it before, Sebastian’s sleeves rolled up. The lean forearms bare and bone-white. He’d seen it up in the bathroom, of course, but he rarely saw his servant working, looking like this, reaching for spoons and sugar absently, settling the linen cloth back over his broad shoulder.

It might be Bard’s kitchen, but the butler was far more at home down here than his master. Ciel felt strangely out of place, far from his own room, his own desk and his books. This wasn’t quite his world. It hardly even felt like his home.

And the butler was moving between the sink and stove and marble-topped bench as though he owned the place.

‘Tea, my lord.’ Sebastian set the cup in front of him.

Ciel didn’t answer. He breathed in the aromatic steam. Earl Grey.

The butler was working again. He had a cream-coloured ceramic bowl tipped on its side on the bench-top and was pulling dobs of dough from it, rolling them with quick small pats of his hands and dropping them onto a dash of flour lightly. And onto a tray. The dough looked soft. It looked like it might be nice to play with, actually. 

Another neat round of dough. The flour plumped up in a little cloud of white around it. Did the butler ever do these things just for fun? Ciel would never ask. 

He wanted to know another thing, though. ‘Don’t you ever take your gloves off when you work?’

‘No,’ Sebastian said. Coolly. He didn’t look up.

‘No,’ said Ciel, ‘I suppose not. If the others saw your seal, and things.’

The demon didn’t reply.

‘Not even when you’re alone?’

‘I do hope you intend to go back to bed at some point, my lord. You have scarcely slept and I cannot afford a morning of correcting your mistakes.’

Ciel looked at him. Perhaps Sebastian actually preferred to keep the gloves on. Perhaps it wasn’t only service manners, or mortal camouflage. 

That was an interesting thought. He would have to think about it for a while.

‘Can you put raisins in those bread-roll things?’

‘It would be possible, sir.’

‘It would taste good.’

‘It suppose it would not be entirely incompatible with the flavour.’

‘Are you going to?’

‘It was not my intention, my lord.’

‘Sebastian. Put raisins in them.’

The demon looked up at him. And bowed his head. ‘Yes, my lord,’ he said, and scooped the whole trayful of tidy dough-balls back into his mixing bowl. His steps echoed on the stone floor as he disappeared into the pantry and came back with the ceramic crock. He resumed his work in silence.

The kitchen was warm. Peaceful, perhaps. Strange. Ciel had a sudden irritable need to make something happen. 

He wriggled his cold toes beneath the hem of his nightgown. ‘ _Do_ you have any biscuits?’

‘Of course, my lord.’ Sebastian was checking the oven, stooping to open the vents along the gleaming black front of it. ‘Oat-cakes. Hazelnut tuiles. I believe Bard even has a tin of pink-iced manufactured abominations somewhere.’

‘I expect to see them served for morning tea tomorrow.’ Ciel spoke as though he expected to be obeyed.

‘Well, sir,’ said the butler, ‘your morning tea remains a matter for negotiation.’

‘I’m hungry.’

‘That is not quite a surprise, my lord.’

‘Bring me a biscuit.’

The butler didn’t turn his head. ‘It would be remiss of me to serve a child sweets after midnight, sir.’

‘Shall I order you?’

Sebastian didn’t seem concerned as he moved the racks within the yawning heat of the open stove. ‘I will happily prepare you something nourishing, young master, but for the sake of your health, biscuits are hereby deemed non-essential to the contract this morning.’

‘Shall I get them _myself,_ then?’

‘I would not advise poking about in Bard’s pantry, sir. It is very possible that you will accidentally stick your fingers in a meat-mincer and take them off altogether.’

‘I want a biscuit.’

‘Clearly.’ Sebastian closed the oven door and brushed off his hands. He checked the time on the kitchen clock. It didn’t seem as though he planned to say anything else.

‘If I’m not permitted to eat biscuits in my own kitchen,’ said Ciel coldly, ‘I might as well go back to bed, then.’

Sebastian was measuring sugar. ‘One moment, my lord, and I shall take you up.’ 

‘I can walk.’ Shortly. He didn’t like this mood of his servant’s, this impassive coolness, and he'd rather go back up alone through the ghostly hallways.

The butler looked up from the scales. ‘Barefoot, sir?’ He sighed as he stepped over to Ciel.

‘I made it down here without mishap.’

‘And that was not particularly clever of you.’ There was something odd in Sebastian’s voice, and Ciel looked up at him with contempt.

‘Oh? I suppose I’m not permitted to do that, either.’

‘You may go where you please,’ said Sebastian, ‘but your feet must be getting very cold, young master.’ He tucked his fingers under the edge of Ciel’s nightgown and found his tucked-up toes. ‘It would be a rather boring development if you were to contract pneumonia. That would hardly be a fitting end, now, would it, sir? Expiring miserably with your little lungs full of phlegm.’

His gloved hand was hot and Ciel twitched his toes. 

‘Get off.’

‘Tsk. Quite frozen.’

‘Get _off._ ’ Ciel pulled back and scuffled on the stool. He winced. The tea-cup shattered on the floor. He’d knocked it with his scrabbling elbow. ‘Look what you did,’ he said. Sharply, breathing hard. 

‘Me, sir?’ Sebastian raised his brows and sighed. ‘I do believe you’ve outdone Mey-rin for clumsiness today, young master. Perhaps I shall have to dock the cost from your allowance.’

‘I’m in charge of my own finances,’ said Ciel, but it was pointless; he knew the butler was simply trying to ruffle him, and was mortified to realise it was working. He held tight to the edge of the bench-top as he began to clamber down from the stepladder. Sebastian was leaning against the front of it so he slid down the side, untucking his legs from under himself, searching for the runner. ‘You make a mess of everything and pretend it was nothing to do with you at all.’ His feet were dangling for the floor. ‘All I wanted was a bloody biscuit.’

‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you, my lord.’

‘I _don’t_ need help, I’m perfectly capable of--’ Ciel dropped. Hot sharp broken tea-cup. It stung. He stumbled. ‘ _Shite--_ ’

‘For somebody who doesn’t like to be ignored,’ Sebastian was saying, ‘you really aren’t very good at listening when others speak, sir. Don’t walk on it. Hold still.’

Ciel felt Sebastian’s hands slip under his arms. He was being hoisted back up and plumped on the top step of the ladder as though he was a toddler, and he kicked out at the butler’s black legs. ‘Oi,’ he said coldly, and then ‘Oh,’ less so, at the frown on the butler’s face and the sudden sight of his own foot, oddly white and smeared a sickening red. 

And it hurt.

Ciel curled his fingers in his lap.

‘Dear me, sir.’ Sebastian knelt, taking Ciel’s heel between his thumb and finger and turning it slightly, as though it was some sort of specimen. ‘Directly through the arch.’ The cut was welling blood. It was sliding down to Ciel’s heel, and it looked horribly bright on the tips of Sebastian’s white gloves. The butler regarded the wound, his other hand curled thoughtfully at his lips. ‘It isn’t all that deep. Nor wide; but we shall need iodine, sir.’ And he dropped Ciel’s foot and was opening the kitchen drawers, rummaging, producing a little tin of bandages. ‘We have so _very_ many injuries in this house. Tsk. What _have_ you done?’

Ciel only glared as he leaned down and pressed his palm hard against the sting of his cut. It was sticky. He raised the edge of his hand to check it, and the butler was right; it didn’t seem to be serious. The pain of his humiliation was much worse.

Sebastian returned with a sigh and tapped Ciel’s hand away. ‘Don’t touch it, young master. Have you any idea how unclean a mortal’s skin is? Your concern for microbial science is appallingly lax.’ Ciel looked down at his hand, at the red smudge of blood, and curled it up in his lap.

Sebastian took Ciel by the ankle and settled the injured foot up on his master’s other knee, turned it upwards towards the hanging light overhead. He pushed the dressing-gown apart and slid Ciel’s nightgown high over his thighs, clear of the bloodied mess, and bent over the injury with a deepening frown. 

‘There may yet be a sliver left in the wound, my lord.’ Sebastian kept hold of Ciel’s ankle but he was removing his other glove. His right one. Tugging it off between his teeth, tip by tip. And the butler let it drop on the kitchen floor as he touched Ciel’s foot. 

Lightly, but it seemed to echo all the way up Ciel’s leg. Down his spine. He chewed at his lip. 

Sebastian’s bare thumb.

The demon was testing the wounded skin carefully, a warm firm press. Across the pale arch, probing. 

‘Ow, that-- it’s fine. _Don’t._ ’ 

But the creature probably wanted to touch it. Probably knew it stung him, and Ciel shivered.

‘Well,’ said the demon. ‘I believe it is clean, at least.’ He didn't stop, though. He pressed again at Ciel’s arch with the fold of his knuckle, squeezing open the edges of the cut. _Tsk._ Pressing it closed again; and the seam wept a dark red trickle. All the way down to pool on Ciel’s flinching thigh, and the earl curled up his toes. Uncurled them.

Sebastian didn’t look up. His bare thumb was a bright smear of blood and he raised it to his lips. Licked thoughtfully. And sucked it slowly clean, the pad of his thumb. And then his knuckle, his tongue a wet slide over it, and Ciel tightened his own twined fingers in his lap. 

His eyelids felt hot and he blinked, uncertain, watching Sebastian.

‘Well,’ said Sebastian. But he didn’t finish his sentence. He bent over Ciel’s foot again and said nothing. He cleared his throat. His mouth was pinched very thin, and for a moment Ciel wondered if the demon disliked the taste of his blood. 

Sebastian said nothing more as he worked. He dabbed the wound with iodine, a dark brown stain on the bleached-looking skin, and wrapped it with the linen bandage. His fingers moved slowly on Ciel’s skin, the bare and the gloved, cool and warm. Ciel held tight to the tucked-up hem of his nightgown, watching the flutter of Sebastian’s fingers, and the darkening mess of blood on his goose-fleshed leg, and the shimmer of his servant’s reflection in the cooling puddle of spilt tea on the sandstone floor below.

The black sleeve was mirrored. Ciel could sometimes see it, a haze at the edge of his vision. A trail like smoke. Sometimes Sebastian’s shadow seemed to ripple against the wall like ink or puddle trembling at his feet and Ciel had wondered, when he was younger, if he could see it better when he was tired, like this-- the way one sees things moving in one’s room too late at night. 

More recently he’d wondered if the demon simply held himself less closely when he knew his master wasn’t paying attention.

Ciel could see it now, coiling behind the kneeling servant. Softly; as though the shadow was looking for something. Or was waiting. Or was tired of waiting.

Sebastian lowered the bound foot carefully, setting it on the rung of the step-ladder. 

Ciel went to pull down his nightgown.

‘Tsk.’ Sebastian hooked at his wrist with his gloved hand. ‘My lord.’ 

He bent over Ciel’s thigh again, and this time he rested his warm bare fingers on his master’s dangling calf, brushing it lightly as he began to lick at the drying stain of blood.

Ciel’s stomach squirmed. The long tongue lapped hot on his skin and he wasn’t, he _wasn’t_ going to make a sound. The beast would press at the edges, ease a little further every time, and to yield, to soften for him--

It was tasting him, working slowly, sucking every trace of blood from his skin. Ciel felt the graze of teeth. His hands gripped tighter, tighter in his lap until he saw his own knuckles purplish-white. Because Sebastian’s mouth was hot, and close, and tickled, and underneath his nightgown his body stirred rebelliously.

Another moment and it would be clear even to his servant that he was heating quickly. But Sebastian probably knew. He always seemed to know. That was why he did these things-- malevolent, amused, teasing his master’s body.

Ciel held himself still. He didn’t even clear his throat. He only watched the slow swipe of Sebastian’s tongue, the suck and press of his lips.

And at last the butler straightened up, tucking his hair back from his eyes.

Ciel pulled his nightgown down over his knees. It was crumpled. Dampish. ‘Finished?’ he asked. He met the demon’s eyes quite steadily but his voice was little more than a breath.

Sebastian didn’t answer. He took Ciel’s wrist and turned it over in his hand, spreading the blood-stained fingers. The breath was hot, but Sebastian’s lips were hotter still, pressed upon the span of flesh between his splayed thumb and finger. Sucking at the stain of blood, and the movement of the demon’s mouth was velvet-soft.

Over the swell of his open palm, and there was no blood left. No mark of anything, only the wet glisten from Sebastian’s tongue, and still the demon kept hold of him. Moved up to his wrist, now, and Sebastian bent Ciel’s fingers back-- just a fraction, straining-- and his tongue was warm against Ciel’s pulse. 

The touch seemed to move under his skin. The sucking at his wrist. And an edge of teeth, and the rippling scrape made Ciel want to squeeze his eyes closed but he didn’t dare to look away.

Sebastian pulled his lips away from his master’s wrist and rubbed his thumb at the mark he’d left, firmly, slowly. Ciel thought the butler was about to release his hand and tugged away, but Sebastian was holding it tighter than he’d realised.

And then Sebastian was sucking at his thumb, and he felt the wet twirl of tongue around it. And then at his middle finger, and his hand curled against the butler’s mouth, and Ciel shuddered at the indecent pressure, the slow suggestive pull between the demon’s lips. Down the length, and then the long tongue twined deep between his fingers, slick and wet, and Ciel wanted to say something, _do_ something, pull his hand away or strike the beast who was sucking at him so gently, so hungrily. And he couldn’t. 

Sebastian bit down slowly. Tightened his teeth on the first knuckle of Ciel’s finger, and released his master’s wrist. Released but still caught fast, and Ciel felt himself flushing furiously, perched precariously.

He twitched his fingertip, and Sebastian’s teeth were sharp. 

He wriggled it carefully, avoiding the demon’s eyes, looking only at his own finger trapped in Sebastian’s mouth. And tried pushing in, and the demon allowed it, deeper, and Ciel knew he must look as hot, as helpless as he felt. 

Sebastian was leaning against his knees, leaning against the ladder, impossibly warm and heavy, and Ciel could feel the demon’s breath over his whole hand as he stiffened. But he could be calm. He could be silent. The creature wanted to see him squirm. He waited. 

And finally Sebastian loosened his teeth, and Ciel felt the graze of elongated fangs along his skin as he slid his finger out again.

The demon didn’t budge. He was straddling Ciel’s knee, and Ciel couldn’t even pretend not to see it. To _feel_ it, Sebastian’s inflamed condition, and the firm press against his leg. 

Ciel curled his hands into fists. His finger was still wet from the demon’s mouth.

‘You must be tired,’ he said. He kept it steady. ‘You should have been able to catch my tea-cup before it hit the ground.’ He was looking at the butler’s watch-chain because there was nothing else to look at, nothing safe, not the fine cruel face above him or the heated swell of Sebastian’s arousal against his thigh.

‘Not tired, my lord.’ The demon’s hand settled on the benchtop beside him. ‘Merely distracted, I think.’ And his other hand, bare, gripped the wooden seat of the step-ladder beside Ciel, and Sebastian pressed himself close. Much too close, the swing of his watch-chain bumping at Ciel’s chin.

‘Wasn't that--’ Ciel gasped. ‘Unprofessional?’ It was all he could manage.

‘Who just came into the kitchen to steal biscuits at midnight, sir?’ 

And Ciel was in the middle of deciding what to answer when Sebastian rested his head against him, heavy and warm at his shoulder, and he couldn’t say anything. The creature was too close. The soft hair tickled his neck.

Sebastian began to move against him, strong, slow, and he wished he could pretend he didn’t know precisely what his servant was doing to him. He heard the demon’s quickening breath. And he knew if he said nothing, Sebastian was quite capable of-- 

Actually, he didn’t know. He didn’t want to know. His blood was drumming in his throat.

‘You like this?’ Ciel let every drip of his fury rest in his voice. ‘Do you?’

The demon didn’t speak. Not with words. Only a moan, a quivering sound that made Ciel ache between his hips. 

‘Well, then.’ It was more breathless than Ciel would have liked but he was trying. Reaching for equilibrium. ‘ _Well_ , then. Perhaps you would be willing to reconsider the matter of my morning tea tomorrow.’

He didn’t know what answer he expected. But it wasn’t this. Sebastian turned his dark head on Ciel’s shoulder and he was laughing, low and hot and delicious. ‘Really, sir,’ the demon said. A whisper. ‘You are too much. You would sell your body for sweets, would you?’

‘I’m not.’ Ciel was choking. ‘I’m not doing it for that.’ Stupid _stupid_ but it was much too late.

‘Ah,’ said Sebastian. ‘You don’t deny the charge, young master.’ 

Ciel knew better than to answer.

‘No?’ Sebastian’s voice was a luxuriating whisper. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘You _whore_.’

Ciel’s hands were shaking. ‘I’ll bloody cut you,’ he said.

‘Will you, now.’ Sebastian sounded unconcerned. ‘What _are_ you doing this for, exactly?’

Ciel was breathing hard. He was trying not to picture how this would look if somebody were to walk in, trying not to imagine his servant’s body. If Sebastian were undressed-- 

Beneath his nightgown his shaft arched with a flush of fullness.

The push of the demon’s hips was close, strong. Insistent. ‘I shall only say this once, my lord.’ The voice was rich and liquid at Ciel’s cheek. ‘If you should ever attempt to steal sweets again, I shall be forced to resort to punishment. I’m afraid it will be quite disagreeable for your spoilt palate.’ 

‘Sod off,’ Ciel said, and the words sounded as desperate as they felt in his throat. ‘It can’t be worse than the slop you used to serve me.’ He put his hand on Sebastian’s chest. The waistcoat buttons were cold metal. He should never have let his servant get so close. 

‘Ah,’ said Sebastian, a drift of soft breath over Ciel’s throat. ‘I cannot imagine you would risk such flippancy if you could envision what I have in mind, sir.’ Sebastian ground himself against Ciel’s hip-bone and Ciel gripped the butler’s jacket. ‘I must say, I have often wondered exactly what could fit inside that greedy mouth of yours.’

Ciel didn’t answer. He squeezed his eyes closed. 

‘I do hope I have made myself clear, sir.’

Very clear. The thing was hard against his thigh. ‘You wouldn’t dare,’ he whispered. 

‘I do not tell lies,’ said Sebastian, and he stood back, shaking out his shoulders like a waking dog. ‘You are the master, of course, sir. It is entirely within your power to ignore me.’ He smiled, and the curve of his lips was hatefully gentle.

The butler turned back to the stove, opening the oven door, and Ciel climbed down from his ladder. 

He stumbled at the bottom rung. His foot was sore. He didn’t care. 

He left the kitchen, left the warm golden light and Sebastian at the oven and went back up the long cold corridor to the staircases and the hallways and his room. He hardly even knew where he was going. Only his feet remembered, half-limping, aching on the stairs.

This wasn’t what he wanted. But it was. It had been. Hadn’t it?

It had moved far past wanting, now. Ciel knew it. He had only to imagine _stopping_ it to know he couldn’t.

He climbed under his chilly blankets, burrowing deep into his pillow. He tucked his feet up close beneath his nightshirt, beneath his soft dressing-gown, and still he was cold. 

The demon’s insolence was beyond belief. To treat his master’s body with such lascivious contempt. Not even attempting to hide his own bestial desire, delighting in it, his own desire and Ciel’s resistance. He had resisted, hadn’t he? He hadn’t let Sebastian push him. 

Then again, Sebastian had been the one who stopped first.

Knowing what one wants is useful. Knowing whether it is dangerous is necessary. And after that, it comes down to determination.

The demon’s teeth had been pointed dog-sharp when Sebastian sucked at his fingers. Animal teeth, sharp enough to pierce flesh. Perhaps he should have tested it.

Ciel closed his eyes, and his hand was trembling when he raised it to his lips. When he licked at it. 

He knew what his servant was. Being powerless against a monster could almost be forgivable; he could hide beneath the bed, a frightened child, and wait to be dragged out. Or rescued. It’s only a matter of time.

Where could he hide when the monster was already a fever within his bones?

Ciel’s fingers were still trembling when he slid them into his mouth, deep, and sucked at them, and when he pressed them against his tongue and bit them. Hard between the crush of his teeth, and he felt down between his cold legs and tugged. And this was the first time he hated himself as much as he hated the beast in his house, because he allowed himself to want it. To imagine the weight of the demon’s naked body over him. The shape of it, and the feel. The heat. The taste. _This_ taste, lingering on his skin.

This was the first time he asked himself what he was willing to give. And the answer wasn’t nothing, not any more. And he ached, because anything would be too much, and still he wanted it.

This was the first time he bit back Sebastian’s name, hard as the knuckles between his teeth as he pleasured himself. Half sick with fury. Fiercely. 

Miserably. 

Merciless as the devil himself.

  
  
  
  
  



	7. versus {towards}

Sebastian was polite to his master when he took the earl’s breakfast up at eight o’clock. 

Polite when he poured the tea, and set the tray across his master’s covered lap; the gilt-rimmed plate was full of raisin buns, still warm, and the boy paused. He brushed the tumbled hair from his eyes to glance up at Sebastian. 

And Sebastian pretended not to notice. 

Selective ignorance is a skill highly valued and carefully honed amongst service staff, but it was getting difficult: the demon almost had to remember, sometimes, remember not to notice. Not the boy’s dark look or his plump lip, bitten, or the infuriating scent of sex that trailed around the little hand that reached up for the tea-cup.

The demon had heard the sweet breathy noises from his master’s bedroom, long after midnight. The desperation. And lust-- pained, delicious-- and half-tearful rage.

The boy was angry with him. 

And so he should be: there was no aristocratic household in Britain that would permit a head butler to treat his young employer with such degrading intimacy. No decent aristocratic family, anyhow, thought Sebastian; and he twitched his nose thoughtfully as he handed the boy the neatly folded morning _Times._

 _Decency_ was something which the Earl of Phantomhive was losing with satisfying rapidity.

His master ate half the butter-slathered bun, and licked his fingertips. ‘I told you they’d be better with raisins,’ the earl said. There was a note of provocation to it.

‘And you were entirely correct, my lord.’ 

‘Hmph,’ said the earl.

Sebastian had no need to challenge his master. He could wait.

And did; for the taste, the tease of victory, as he undressed the boy. Noting with quiet satisfaction the yellowing edges of his own bite, dark on his master’s skin. Re-dressing the slight cut on the earl’s foot; breathing deeply over the lingering sweetness of dried blood-- would the boy notice? would it matter if he did?-- and best of all, most perfect, watching the short breaths from the chest under his hands as he buttoned up the fresh-pressed shirt. Watching the tiny nipples harden beneath the starched cotton.

The child was close. He was so very _close_ to falling, this delectable defiant thing. How many more of his servant's marks would be left on his little body before the end?

And Sebastian held himself carefully, moved cautiously, his body as sharpened as his teeth.

‘You like making food.’

The earl was watching him closely as he laced up his master’s boots; a little more loosely on the left boot, room for the light gauze bandage beneath it.

‘It is one of my less onerous duties, my lord.’

‘You like it.’

‘One might say that, sir.’

‘Why?’

Sebastian didn’t look up. Questions were a new development. 

‘Well,’ he said. ‘Perhaps it is something of a novelty to create instead of destroy, sir.’ And he frowned. That was the truth, actually. Had he answered so promptly, so unguardedly?

 _No lies._ What a vile habit his master had established in him.

‘I see,’ said the earl. ‘Destruction is beginning to bore you, is it?’ The question was crisp with irony.

‘Not exactly, my lord.’ Sebastian set down the right foot, and raised the left onto his knee. He rubbed at the boot-toe with his gloved thumb before he began to lace. ‘It is simply a deeper involvement in a complex process of dissolution, sir.’

There was a pause. His master was thinking. ‘Process.’

Sebastian knew it was another question. ‘I create in the full knowledge that it will come to nothing in the end, sir. I bake bread, and it is eaten. You build a house of cards, and you know it will fall. There is no true creation, my lord.’ He settled the boy’s feet together in his lap. ‘Only a long-view of the end.’

He looked up at the earl, and the earl was looking back at him, his fine brows gathered. His strange eyes were cold and lovely. The small heels wriggled against Sebastian’s lap.

‘You’re a nihilist. How very predictable.’ It was almost a smile, that sharp twist of his master’s pink mouth.

‘No, sir.’ Sebastian held the little feet tightly. ‘Politically, perhaps. Philosophically, not at all. I cannot believe in the utter negation of existence. ’

‘No doubt you have some grand theory concerning the ultimate meaning of everything.’ The boy was sitting still, now. ‘I suppose you need to spend your free time on something.’

‘Not particularly grand, sir.’ Sebastian met the steady gaze. ‘And I cannot vouch for meaning. Only value.’ He spoke briskly. ‘Some of the things that I see have value to me, and I follow them. Beyond that, I have no interest in philosophical enquiry. This sophistry is only fit for human minds, my lord.’

_As for what I spend my free time contemplating--_

He set down the boy’s feet, and stood up, and brushed off his knees. The earl was still watching him and it was sharp as ice along Sebastian’s neck.

Really. His master was too inquisitive by half. And Sebastian was finished with truth for one day; there was only so much he could manage before it began to stick like a bone in his gullet.

The boy deserved something for his impudent curiosity. A swipe across the throat. A claw beneath the quiver of his ribs. Sebastian tied the string of the black silk eye-patch with steady hands, and tried not to breathe in the scent of his master’s stirred hair. 

He let his fingers slide, though, when he’d finished, down the delicate nape. The pale velvet skin, the silver glisten of soft baby hairs. He pressed his thumb into it, and tucked his fingertips slowly inside the boy’s high collar. He saw his master’s narrow shoulders stiffen. He felt the heat of the mortal body, and slipped his hand around the back of the slim neck. He held it lightly, firmly. Under his gloved thumb pulsed the hot blood beneath his master’s jaw.

And they stood like that for a moment, until the earl tossed his head, shuffling Sebastian’s hand off like a pony shaking itself out, and pulled away to straighten his jacket.

Sebastian held out the heavy travelling coat in readiness. Carried over his master’s top hat and cane. Drew no attention towards the preposterous little tenting of the boy’s shorts, which was quite magnanimous of him, really. 

They were leaving at nine on the stroke this morning and Sebastian didn’t have time to spare, for one thing.

And for another, he could grant the brat this much, couldn’t he? A morning’s breath. 

And besides, the boy already knew he’d seen it. Sebastian could simply smile neatly at his master as he bowed his way out of the room, and it was more than enough.

The demon made his way down to the echoing foyer and out into the windy spatter of the morning rain. Finny’s hair was a splash of brightness away across the grey wet garden, doing something with the hedge prunings, and he stopped to watch the boy; and Finny turned to wave his hand in greeting. He’d known he was being watched. 

Good survival instincts, at least, despite his faults: and Sebastian smiled in approval. Not entirely useless, that one.

The carriage horses stamped impatiently when they heard him preparing the coach. They knew the rattling sound and they were tired of the stables. No creature likes to be kept inside too long, no matter how foul the weather and how fine the cage. 

Except the earl, of course: but he was always the exception. 

Sebastian led the horses out of their stalls and began to settle them into harness. And turned his head, listening. There were small footsteps clicking on the cobble-stoned courtyard outside the stable door. For his master to venture out into the barnyard muck of his stables without good reason was hardly customary, to say the least; the young lord usually waited in the foyer until his coach was readied at the bottom of the steps.

Then again, the young lord usually didn’t venture down into the kitchen, either.

Surely the earl had better things to do with his time than follow his servant around the manor like a lost puppy. 

Sebastian smiled slowly. _Impatient this morning, are we, sir?_

_Or merely hungry._

And he heard the small cough, half in disgust at the hot manure smell and half in a bid for attention. Sebastian ignored it.

And he heard it again.

Then, ‘Are you quite done?’

‘No, sir,’ said Sebastian, ‘as you can see.’ He didn’t turn as he worked on the heavy harness buckles. 

A pause. ‘So you cleaned up in here after all.’

‘I was not aware I had given you reason to doubt me, young master.’ It took longer to say than _yes_ , but injecting that drip of sarcasm into his voice was infinitely more satisfying.

‘Antony ought to be taken out and walked this evening. He’ll get restive without exercise.’ 

The earl kept Antony stabled in the stall at the end of the long building; his hunter, the pretty blue-black gelding Sebastian had purchased for him. A fine animal, thought the demon, if a little too leggy for his tiny master. Not that the demon had carefully considered such a thing when he selected the creature, of course.

He’d told the earl he would grow into it eventually.

‘He is put out to pasture regularly, my lord.’

‘He looks miserable.’ 

‘He can’t help it, sir. Perhaps the poor beast simply needs to be ridden.’

Another pause. ‘If I hadn’t cut my foot last night, I would be going out for a ride this afternoon.’

‘Indeed, sir.’ Sebastian moved to fasten the second harness. The coach-horse’s heavy neck shivered against his shoulder. Animals didn’t like him: he knew this. They obeyed, though. They caused him no trouble. Cats alone had never seemed too upset by his scent, his touch; but they were an exception, too. ‘I do find it difficult to believe you intended to leave the house at all, young master, but I will admit it was a pleasant thought.’

‘Shut up,’ said the earl behind him. ‘I get plenty of practise. Last month.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Antony’s bridle needs replacing, anyhow.’

_Is that so? I call your bluff, sir._

‘Of course, my lord,’ Sebastian said. ‘I shall place an order at Mayhew’s saddlery after we visit the Undertaker this morning. Your aunt will be pleased to see you keep up with your riding; in a few years you may yet prove a worthy competitor for her.’

‘Indeed.’ Drily, that clear little voice behind him. ‘Aunt Frances says my hands are too firm on the jumps.’

‘Your aunt is a woman of curious perspicacity, sir. I’m forced to agree with her.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my hands.’ 

The boy sounded quite offended, bless him, and Sebastian smiled down at the buckle as he worked. 

‘One must give the beast its head or it tends to panic, young master. Your aunt understands the value of trusting her mount.’

‘I trust Antony. _He_ is quite obedient, at least.’ No mistaking that little emphasis.

‘I’m glad to hear it, sir. Next time you take him out, allow him some slack on the jumps and he will reward your faith. If you simply hold the reins more loosely, your seat in the saddle will be everything your aunt could desire.’

Sebastian couldn’t resist glancing back he spoke, at the little gloved hands gripping the ebony walking stick. The pale face, watching him intently. The keen blue eye.

He didn’t miss the boy’s derisive snort.

‘What would you know?’

‘I know that you have inherited your aunt’s natural horsemanship, my lord, and you have every chance of improving upon it if you only maintain your practise.’

That was a compliment. Quite unbarbed, and he knew the earl would be frowning over it.

‘Yes,’ said his master stiffly. ‘Perhaps I shall take Antony out once the bridle is replaced. After all,’ he added, ‘I don’t need Aunt Frances on my tail about it. She’s never in the mood to be pleased.’ 

Not the only thing her nephew inherited, then.

‘She did say my balance is good, I suppose.’ The earl sniffed. ‘Although her exact words were _not bad for somebody who could trip over an invisible step_.’

‘My thoughts exactly, young master.’

‘What?’ 

‘Your balance is quite fine, sir, even if your hands are stiff. What is the old saying? _One must ride with the hands of a lady, the posture of a king_ \--’ Sebastian brushed off his gloves and turned back to his master. ‘ _And the hips of a whore._ You have two out of three, sir; still quite an admirable achievement.’

Fury. It bloomed beautifully over the boy’s pointed face, his widening eye and tight little mouth: and now the earl was hot and pink and rumpled as an angry flower.

Really, his master had walked right into it. Sebastian could almost bring himself to pity the child. _A demon’s equal? I don’t think so, sir._

‘I was about to come back in and find you, my lord.’ Sebastian moved around to open the coach door. ‘But you appear to have saved me the trouble. If you are ready to leave--’

Sebastian held out his hand in waiting for his master’s small gloved fingers. But the boy didn’t even look at it.

‘About time. Mind you don’t slow on the up-hill, either. We haven’t got all day.’ And the earl stepped up to the foot-iron himself, clinging to the frame of the carriage door, and ducked into the coach. 

‘If I may enquire as to which book you have brought along, sir--’

His master hadn’t brought one. Sebastian could see. 

‘Hmph,’ said the boy. ‘I don’t need one.’

Sebastian bowed his head. ‘Of course, sir. If you should require one at some point, however, I took the liberty of selecting the new Jules Verne.’ He pulled it from his coat-pocket.

The earl looked at the book, outstretched in Sebastian’s fingers. He leaned out the carriage door and took it. 

‘I don’t need one,’ he said again, pointedly, and settled the heavy skirts of his travel coat across his knees. 

I don’t need _you_ , said his flushed and frowning little face. He didn’t need to say it in words; they both heard the echo in his meaning.

They both knew it was a lie.

Sebastian bowed, and closed the carriage door, and smiled.

*******************

Ciel’s face still felt flushed when he seated himself in the coach.

Sebastian was becoming unbearable. His utter arrogance. His insolent _mouth._ Even when he spoke quite politely, there was a slither of something unspeakable behind his words. And it only took one of those words to reduce Ciel to this; humiliated, unsettled; as hot as he’d felt last night.

The wisest thing to do would be to stop it all. Immediately. Not a single further touch of that unclean body beyond the bounds of propriety. 

The only problem was, of course, he didn’t want to stop. 

Ciel closed his eyes, feeling the slow roll of the coach-wheels as Sebastian led the horses out into the courtyard. And then the jolt as the coach pulled away down the drive.

His belly was a twist of uneasiness, and he hated it. Sebastian would never be troubled by any such feeling as this-- he did as he pleased, that thing. Clearly shameless. Quite indecent.

Aunt Frances had picked it at once, of course. She’d never trusted Sebastian. The demon was right: she was indeed a woman of bewildering comprehension. She saw things nobody else did; or perhaps it was a form of intuition. Not that it would help her; only facts have any relevance. And Aunt Frances had proof of nothing.

If she had any idea what her nephew’s butler was. And what the creature was capable of. And what her nephew had permitted it to do to him--

That was another thought better avoided. 

Not that Ciel cared for opinion now, after this, after everything. But it was strange sometimes to consider his aunt, her brisk Anglican morality and fervent self-reliance, and remember that there were some who lived in daylight. Who were untroubled by this weight of shadow, of sickening sin; death and flame and hunger.

Ciel leaned his head back against the buttoned leather seat. There were some who lived without guilt. Without shame.

He folded his hands in his lap. Neatly, aligning his fingertips.

Perhaps he had no need of shame himself. If he thought about this properly, and not as somebody like his aunt would see things. This thing that kept him sleepless, this desire-- it was only a physical requirement, and he was becoming resigned to the fact that his unruly body had simply developed another sort of need. He’d been taking care of it himself, after all, and there was no reason not to move this responsibility to his servant permanently, if he wanted to. 

As for wanting something more from Sebastian-- that was a more delicate thing to navigate. But this was his own mind, his own body, and he could think this through quite clearly; it was only another sort of negotiation, even if it was only with himself. 

Sebastian was his servant. It was vile, humiliating, but masters used their servants for their own pleasure quite regularly; the scandals often made it into the papers. And this one would continue to be discreet, at least. 

His servant was male. That was another problem. Such a desire was not unheard of, if entirely illegal, but he was hardly about to begin bothering about legality at this point. And the same for morality, really. It was a tenuous concept of mortal reality, at best; and Ciel bit his lip. That sounded like something Sebastian would say.

Besides, the _Greeks_. His library was comprehensive. He knew things. He knew what adults were capable of doing.

And he didn’t _want_ a girl. It would be tiresome. There would be time enough to worry about that; years before he’d have to marry. He would never have needed to think of these things, probably, if his servant was any other than _this_ servant; Sebastian had managed to awaken something that really ought to have stayed quiet until he reached his majority, at least; but it was too late now for innocence. 

Ciel swallowed sourly. If he was old enough to need something, he was old enough to find a way to fix it. He wasn’t a child.

His age had never seemed to restrain Sebastian, anyhow; the demon had begun this thing. 

As for however old _it_ might be--

Irrelevant, really. His servant wasn’t a man at all. A man’s body would be unbearable, so close, the very thought of it; but this hardly even counted, surely. The butler was only a thing, a creature, despite the convincing exterior. 

The _very_ convincing exterior, firm against his hip in the kitchen last night, and Ciel could only imagine what lay beneath Sebastian’s uniform. Beneath those slim black trousers. He’d felt it, that afternoon when he’d dared to grasp at his butler on the kitchen staircase; soft and dizzily hot, and then not soft at all, and _much_ too long against the demon’s leg, and now Ciel was blushing furiously in the empty carriage. The very memory. It had felt human. Too much so, and he hadn’t tried it again since he’d poked at his servant yesterday morning; just testing. Just a prod. And Sebastian hadn’t liked it, had he? Not when he wasn’t doing it himself. 

He’d rather have his master pinned down.

Ciel would find out. He had always gotten what he wanted since the demon came into his employment, and it was only a natural extension to get the demon itself. 

All to himself. Close. Alone. Undressed, preferably. His _own_ , and the look in Sebastian’s eyes when he was forced to know it.

And that was it. Simple. There was no need to think about this again.

And he opened the blinds and watched the wet passing fields for a while, and _didn’t_ think about it again. Not once. Not about whether his servant’s monstrous nature made the situation better, or very much worse. Not about why the rare inhuman flash of Sebastian’s teeth stirred him more than the cool precision of the butler’s morning manners, or whether the demon would accept any of this entirely logical reasoning; or how Ciel could ever hope to control the immensity of its ego, its unbounded hunger.

Not about what the physical requirements of such an uneasy coupling would mean.

Not about what the beast would do to him if he ever _asked._

He managed not to think about any of those things at all. 

They hardly even crossed his mind, really, on the long rattling road into London, as he chewed his lip to pieces, restless on the hard carriage seat.

****************

As it turned out, they spent very little time at the Undertaker’s workshop that morning, and Sebastian couldn’t say he was sorry about the fact.

The mortician was busy in one of the back rooms when they entered, though he seemed in a pleased sort of mood when he leaned around the doorway.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘my little Phantomhive! _And_ his amusing butler.’

‘Hmph,’ said the earl. ‘I’m glad he’s useful for something.’ He didn’t glance across at Sebastian. ‘We have a question for you this morning.’

‘Sit down,’ said the Undertaker, stepping into the greasy lamplight. He was rubbing his thin hands together with a click of long black nails like the sound of beetle’s wings. ‘Sit _down_.’

‘Not today,’ said the earl, who hadn’t even taken off his top hat, ‘we are in quite a hurry.’ 

Sebastian was rather pleased. There was a lingering stench in the workshop that he didn’t like, sweet corruption and sharp chemicals. It burned through his nose and seemed to settle in all of his master’s clothes every time they visited.

And the place was filthy, anyhow, dead moths and burnt-out candles, cobwebs and unswept floor and dust on everything, the shelves and their rows of cloudy jars, all pale unspeakable things floating in formaldehyde. There is such a thing as an aesthetic, of course, but it is not incompatible with general cleanliness. Sebastian sighed.

‘I see,’ said Undertaker, and he bent over the earl with a curious shrug of his shoulders beneath the heavy mourning robes. ‘No time at all for your old friends, then.’ He reached out one dark-nailed fingertip to touch the earl’s nose, and Sebastian saw his master wince.

‘No time for anything,’ said the earl, ‘it’s bad weather out there.’

‘I know,’ said the Undertaker. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ He shook his shaggy head beneath the shadow of his crooked stovepipe hat. ‘But you are hard at work again. I saw your last one in the newspapers. _Very_ interesting.’ He rolled his _r_ sharply. ‘Tidy. No bodies at all for an old friend to play with.’

The Baron’s house, a fading blaze in the distance behind them as his small master curled deeper into his arms. Sebastian remembered, too.

‘What is it you’re wanting to know, my boy?’

‘I saw something in the papers,’ said the earl, ‘a man who was killed recently in South Africa. Steiger Roze. He was in the diamond trade.’

‘I know of him,’ said the Undertaker. He scratched slowly at his chin. ‘It will be a slow job, but it should not be difficult for me to acquire his corpse for you.’

‘What? No.’ The boy sounded annoyed. ‘I’m not interested in him. I simply wanted to know who might have been behind his death.’

‘Oh, dearie me.’ The Undertaker seemed to be considering. ‘That will cost you, my boy.’

‘No,’ said Ciel, ‘it won’t.’ He faced the mortician quite steadily. ‘I paid you well enough last time, and I already have an idea of who the killer was. This is confirmation, not revelation.’

The Undertaker laughed, a dry rustle of sound. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘Your bargaining skills are getting sharper by the minute, little Phantomhive. As far as I can see, there has been some trouble with the diamond trade. _Some_ body is selling weapons amongst them.’

‘Somebody?’ The earl looked impatient.

‘Somebody named Woodley.’ The man flashed his teeth. ‘He is the one who has most to gain from the death of the Roze company’s president.’

‘It _was_ Woodley, then,’ said the earl, and he shot Sebastian a satisfied look. Sebastian shrugged in reply. Exactly as he thought: it was nothing he couldn’t have investigated himself, if the earl would only give him a little autonomy.

‘It seems to be,’ said the Undertaker. ‘But I don’t think that has surprised you, hmm?’

‘Very little does,’ said the earl. ‘I make it a habit to keep informed of everything and be caught out by nothing.’ He really was quite pretty when he held up his little chin in such a fashion: noble. Delicate. Out of place here, in the stench and dust of the workshop, as though one of the graveyard outside angels had stirred to life.

Perhaps the Undertaker thought so too; he was smiling at the earl. His sharp-nailed fingers were curling into his black robes. ‘Very wise of you,’ he said. ‘You always were clever. Never be caught out, eh? Wisdom like that is what keeps little lords alive.’ He was laughing. He found himself so much funnier than anybody else did, and Sebastian sighed quietly. They didn’t have time for the man’s tiresome jokes this morning.

But the boy was leaving. They were leaving. ‘Come, Sebastian.’ 

The demon held open the workshop door, and fell into step behind his master. He was happy to go. He didn’t like the slow smile that showed the Undertaker’s teeth as the man watched them leave, laughing silently through the snowy fall of his long loose hair.

‘What is it now?’ His master was watching him irritably when they reached the street outside. ‘If you want to say something, you might as well.’

‘No, sir,’ said Sebastian. ‘I merely find the scent of the Undertaker’s workshop unpleasant.’

‘Hmph,’ said the earl, as Sebastian opened the coach door for him. ‘I thought you’d be used to death.’ He permitted the demon to assist him, this time, and Sebastian felt the warm little fingers wobbling against his palm as his master ascended.

‘Death, yes,’ said Sebastian, and he watched the boy seat himself. Watched the cross of the slim little legs beneath the part of the heavy caped travelling coat. ‘Death I do not mind, young master, as long as it's fresh. The mortal need for embalming, though; I find it puzzling. The care for an empty husk when the soul is long fled.’

‘Respect for lost things,’ said the earl shortly. ‘One has to feel a sense of attachment to something in order to notice when it's gone. I shouldn’t worry about it if I were you.’ His glance was heavy-lidded with scorn, and Sebastian felt an ache behind his neck. It descended, warm along his spine; but he kept his face pleasantly composed. 

‘It strikes me as less a form of respect as a denial of mortality. The concept is so thoroughly _human_.’

‘You realise you only use that word as an insult,’ said the earl; and he was right, actually. 

Sebastian looked at him. ‘Most humans are afraid of death, sir.’

‘Yes.’

‘You are not, my lord.’

‘Death in the abstract; yes. It is uncertain. My death, however, does not frighten me. I already know what it holds.’

That small face, steadfast. Infuriating.

_No, sir. You do not know. And I shall not tell you. You will die with my name on your lips. Your blood. My touch. As it should be._

‘Do you, now, young master?’ Sebastian looked at him. ‘What awaits you at your death?’

‘Nothing.’ The boy looked down at him, and his fine brows drew together. A frown, or a shadow of uncertainty. ‘That’s what you said, wasn’t it? Nothing at all. If a soul is gone.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian slowly. ‘I believe that’s how it is, my lord.’

The child had never been afraid, once he was made to understand the rules. He hadn’t flinched as he realised his soul would be required as payment. He’d been more worried about the loss of _the other_ ; his own self was almost irrelevant to him. 

Strange. Foolish. Perhaps the earl truly was too young to realise what he was giving up: but no. The demon didn’t believe that for a moment. 

Old enough to deny his god; old enough to pay his demon. There was no lenience.

‘Good,’ said the earl. And he’d said that, hadn’t he? When they had sat together in the stench of death, in the bloodstained ruins of the church. The ruins of his family. Of his childhood. He wasn’t afraid of emptiness. ‘Good,’ the boy said again, and he sighed, and for a moment his face was almost peaceful.

Sebastian closed the carriage door. And he ascended to the driver’s seat, taking the heavy reins across his knee, and the cold drift of drizzle didn’t even bother him now, collecting on his upturned collar. He felt the drops hiss on the skin of his neck.

It wasn’t the demon who was the nihilist at all.

The boy was chasing nothingness. His own dissolution.

Sebastian knew what to do with that.

******************

It was good to get out of the workshop; he didn’t much like the smell in there either, whatever he might pretend to Sebastian.

He’d been right about Steiger Roze, anyhow. 

Ciel settled into his seat. His fingers were numb. The cut on his foot was throbbing.

It was good to feel he was making some progress today, no matter how badly the morning had begun, or the previous one had finished. No matter how badly he’d slept. But he was nearly used to it. 

When was the last time he had moved through the days without this uneasy wariness around his butler?

Never, actually. 

But it was undeniably worse these last few weeks.

Today wasn’t too going too badly, though. This nearly felt the way it always had, a day in town with his servant following in polite obedience at his heels. It was almost simple. Like _this_ he felt like the master again, far from the child who’d perched unhappily in the quiet midnight kitchen.

Ciel frowned. It was here again, circling his mind endlessly, no matter how hard he worked at ignoring his thoughts.

And it _was_ hard. He worked carefully, remembering these necessary things. The butler wasn’t mortal, was scarcely even an animal-- he was no more living than the mud beneath the coach-wheels. Except that he was; and he breathed, and bled, and his skin was hot and he had _such_ a voice that shivered through Ciel’s knees. 

It had been so much safer to be served by a monster. A monster does not need to be considered. It could be anything he needed it to be. 

He’d wanted it to be everything except a man.

Had he been worried he’d forget, and see only the mask? As if he’d watch the careful hands, the poised head, the mirrored simulation of emotion flickering over that lovely face like shadows on water, as if he’d fall into the water himself in search of something. He wasn’t fooled by it. It was just simpler keeping it collared in his mind, if nowhere else, a dog on a leash. A beast without a name.

Was that why he had let it so close to him?

Because it was too human, or because it never could be?

Ciel twisted the heavy ring on his thumb.

If only the demon could be restrained somehow-- he would pay good money to find a way to quench that terrible dark amusement in his servant’s eyes.

The coach was stopping in the street across from the saddler’s store. He’d nearly forgotten. Sebastian was going to make a show of this, ordering a new horse bridle and needling him about his riding. Or lack of it. Or anything he could find reason to criticise his master on, and Ciel frowned as he looked over at the bright plate-glass window of the store. 

Sebastian opened the coach door with a thump and leaned inside. ‘I shall only be a moment, sir.’

‘No,’ Ciel said. He was looking at the shop-window, the iron saddle-racks and swinging wooden sign, and his neck was suddenly very hot beneath his heavy woollen coat. 

He wondered if he dared. 

Of course he dared. He was the master, wasn’t he?

‘Stay here,’ he said. He settled his hat firmly. ‘I shall do this myself.’

‘My lord.’ Sebastian was frowning, perched on the foot-iron. ‘It is not appropriate for my master to make his own purchases in such a neighbourhood as this.’

‘Really?’ Ciel stood up, and Sebastian had to move. And he looked at his servant as he stepped down from the coach. ‘We have just come from a mortician’s workshop and are on our way to visit an opium den. I believe I can negotiate a leather-stitcher.’

Sebastian’s mouth tightened, and he bowed. ‘As you please, sir.’

‘Don’t leave the horses.’

‘Understood, my lord.’

‘And don’t listen. That’s an order.’

The demon’s eyes were suddenly flat and sullen. ‘Of course, my lord,’ he said. 

And Ciel held his cane in a close grip as he crossed the quiet street to the store. He managed not to show a trace of the limp that his injured foot was calling for; he could do this. Easily. He knew exactly what he wanted to order.

The saddler’s shop was warm inside, and smelled richly of wax and leather and dogginess. There were two bloodhounds dozing in front of the counter and Ciel looked at them sideways as he approached the polished wooden counter. They were sloppy looking dogs. Soft-eared.

Mr Mayhew was totting something up in his books.

‘Oh, it’s you, is it? Phantomhive. My smallest and finest customer. Morning, sir.’ He leaned over the counter. Jolly, whiskered, wiping his broad red hands on his tweedy vest. ‘No butler today, eh?’

‘He’s around and about,’ said Ciel. 

Mr Mayhew nodded. ‘I didn’t think he’d be far afield from his master. How may I help you, my lord? I do ‘ope that little hunting saddle of yours is holding up well.’ 

Ciel shrugged. ‘The saddle is acceptable.’

‘I see,’ said Mr Mayhew, and he grinned. ‘The fox season’s finishing up now; you might need a new one for next year. But I don’t suppose you’ve grown out of it just yet, eh?’

‘Not quite,’ Ciel said stiffly. The man’s manners were abominable. There is a certain type of lower-class craftsman who appears not to believe in class at all, and this red-faced man was an appallingly clear specimen. He was very good at his job, though, and everything in Ciel’s well-appointed tack-room had come from the workshop out the back. ‘I’m after a new bridle for Antony. Same specifications. You have them on the books?’

‘I do,’ said Mr Mayhew. ‘A fine beast deserves a tidy bridle.’ He’d pulled out a notepad and was scribbling in it with a chewed-up pencil. ‘Shall I have the gents finish it with brass hardware or silver, my lord?’

‘Brass,’ said Ciel. ‘Send the bill with the finished goods.’ 

‘Of course, sir. Will that be all?’

Which Ciel was expecting, and was prepared for. ‘No,’ he said, and he cleared his throat. ‘I’m going to need a collar for a dog.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Mr Mayhew didn’t glance up. ‘Belt or choke?’

Ciel hadn’t expected to be making decisions over this. ‘Just a collar,’ he said. ‘Wide.’ 

The man tapped the counter with his pencil. ‘Is it for decoration or hunting, my lord?’

‘Not hunting,’ Ciel said. ‘It’s a house-pet.’

‘What breed, sir?’

‘Nothing special.’ He bit his lip. ‘Mongrel, really.’

‘Big, small, or middling size?’

‘Big.’ Ciel paused. ‘Biggish.’

‘Measurements?’ 

Ciel tucked his cane beneath his elbow and looked down at his hands. Made a ring of them, considering. Held them up. ‘What’s this?’ 

‘Oh,’ said Mr Mayhew. ‘Twelve inches, perhaps?’

‘How big are theirs?’ With a wave at the sleepy hounds beside him.

‘Twenty-three inch.’

‘And what size is a grown-up’s shirt collar?’

Mr Mayhew shrugged. ‘Fifteen inches, twenty. I’m twenty-two myself.’ He was rather beefy, though. His neck within its stiff cotton collar was thick and raw and red.

‘Alright,’ said Ciel. ‘I want something that will adjust between twelve and eighteen inches.’

‘Aye, sir.’ Mr Mayhew was writing again. ‘That’ll be snug on a big dog.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. 

The man looked up. And grinned again. ‘I see,’ he said. ‘Do you want a leash for it, sir?’

Ciel’s hands were folded cold inside his gloves. ‘Yes,’ he said. 

‘We’ll put a lead-ring on, then, and make up a length of round braid. Harness?’

‘What?’

‘Across the chest, sir. If the pup’s a rowdy one.’

Ciel pictured it. He felt as though he might possibly be colouring hotly. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not today.’ But that was only because he couldn’t be sure of the measurements. Perhaps he would have to take a tape measure to the beast one day and see. And now he was definitely colouring, and wondered if Mr Mayhew would notice.

The man was scribbling, though. He was nearly done. ‘Right, then. We’ll get a nice bit of unsplit bridle leather for the collar itself. What colour would you like, sir? The cherry cognac is very popular among the gentry for their pups.’ He gestured to the row of belts dangling on the rack behind him, every glossy shade of chestnut and caramel leather. Ciel didn’t even look at them.

‘Black,’ he said.

‘Brass trim or silver, sir?’

‘Silver.’

‘Would you like it monogrammed, sir?’

Ciel looked at him. ‘With the dog’s name?’

‘Or your initials, sir, if you like. In case it runs away.’

‘No,’ said Ciel. Slowly. ‘It doesn't need any name at all.’

‘Righty-ho,’ said Mr Mayhew. ‘All done. We’ll get the parcel out by next week, sir.’

‘Good,’ said Ciel, ‘see that you do;’ and he turned to go. 

Mr Mayhew saluted. ‘Best of luck with your pup, sir. If he chews through too many slippers you might have to come back to get a nice little riding crop. A few lashes about the rump and he’ll soon learn.’

Ciel suspected it might have been a wink that crinkled the man’s eyes.

Probably not. 

Surely not.

‘I’ll keep it in mind,’ said Ciel. He tilted his chin up coldly as he left the rich leather scent of the shop and stepped back out, away from the warmth and across the windy street towards his waiting coach. His waiting servant. 

Away towards the day, and the day was his, now. 

Everything was going to be his.


	8. subter {beneath}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May Tennyson's ghost forgive me.  
> (Or not. Tennyson was in love with his own sister, wasn't he? He can handle a bit of fiction, surely.)  
> Enjoy, darlings.

The warehouses of Wapping looked as grey and sullen as the Thames itself, and Ciel closed the blinds on his coach windows with a sigh. It wasn’t as bad as the choking lanes of Whitechapel, where the hunt for the Ripper had taken them, but it was a different sort of dreary.

The carriage door swung open and he smelled the putrid drift of the sluggish riverside air before he even poked his head out into it.

‘Let’s get this over with,’ he said, and he leaned on Sebastian's waiting hand as he stepped down from the coach. ‘We’ve wasted enough time in the city already today.’

The butler was looking around at the pale faces of the local children who were already gathering at the mouth of the dripping alleyway. He beckoned at the closest of them, a crop-haired boy in mismatched boots.

‘Here,’ said Sebastian. ‘A shilling to watch the horses until we return.’

‘You’re on,’ said the boy, a croak of a voice, and he reached up his grubby hand for the reins.

Ciel heard the butler fall into step on the cobblestones behind him, and heard Sebastian's murmur.

‘We really must get a footman one of these days, sir.’

‘Do you find your duties too unmanageable, Sebastian?’ Ciel didn’t even turn his head. ‘One would almost think you weren’t happy with your wages.’

The demon didn’t answer. 

When they reached the damp warehouse steps that led down beneath street level to Lau’s front door, Ciel turned to glance back at Sebastian. 

The demon was slim in his long coat, belted low on his hips, and the high black collar was folded at his sullen chin. The wind caught his hair, a sweep of shadow, and there was really no reason on earth why he had to look so entirely beautiful standing there.

‘What are you waiting for?’ Ciel asked. ‘I don’t open doors.’

‘Of course, my lord.’

A descent into the underworld, the subterranean pits of sin. 

The cavernous room beneath the street level was dim, swirling with heavy bluish smoke, and Ciel coughed into his sleeve as he passed through the carved doors to Lau’s headquarters. Whatever the place had once been-- a storage cellar for the vast shipping warehouses along the street-- only the rust-red brick of the walls and vaulted roof above gave any sign of it. 

There were rows of quiet couches laid out with all the tidy efficiency of a hospital, and there was something medical about the atmosphere. Hushed, busy, and the attendant girls with their quick light step between the sofas. But there was nothing remotely medical about the apparatus that glistened in the lamplight on the glossy lacquered tables.

Beds were tucked into alcoves down one wall, half-hidden behind the drift of long curtains, and only the loll of loose bodies and sleepy heads could be glimpsed in the overhead lantern-light.

Ciel tried not to look as they passed. The air was sweet, warm as an evening garden, heavy in his nose. 

‘Earl!’ The voice from the middle of the long room was raised in lazy greeting. ‘You should have told me you were coming to see us.’

Lau was lounging on one of the velvet sofas, half-hidden in the trailing smoke from the lanterns and the joss-sticks on the surrounding tables. Ran-Mao was curled up on his lap, regarding them both silently.

‘We did tell you.’ Ciel stopped opposite him. ‘You said you were expecting us.’

‘Really?’ The man opened one eye sleepily. ‘Fascinating. Hello, anyway, now that you’re here. Hello, Butler.’

Sebastian made a small noise at Ciel’s side, something between a grunt and a sigh. ‘Good afternoon, Mister Lau.’

‘How very pleasant,’ said Lau. ‘Sit down. Unless you want to step into my office.’ He smiled.

‘Here is fine,’ Ciel said shortly. It was dizzyingly smoky down here, and the limp figures sprawled around the room were unsettling, but the man’s private rooms would likely be even worse.

‘There is no need for stiffness with us, my dear Earl.’ Lau blinked slowly up at them, as though his rapture was too immense for words. ‘It is quite marvellous to see you. An honour, you know. I knew you’d be back.’

‘I told you I was coming,’ Ciel said again, but Lau didn’t appear to have heard. Ciel sat down with a huff on the couch opposite Lau, settling the long skirts of his coat behind him, and handed Sebastian his cane and hat.

‘I know what brings you back here, creeping into my palace like thieves.’ Lau’s smile was a shadow. ‘Only when you want things. Only ever when people _want_ things.’

‘That’s how a business arrangement works.’ 

‘True,’ said Lau. ‘You are visiting me as the Watchdog, then. I was hoping it was just a friendly visit. Well? What _is_ the business, Earl?’

‘You received my invitation, I take it.’

‘Which invitation?’

‘To Phantomhive Manor.’

‘When?’

Ciel stared at him. ‘Are you quite serious?’

Lau reached out his hand, and one of the attendant girls stepped forward to hand him a pipe, long and polished ceramic. He flicked a look at Ciel.

‘Oh,’ he said, and drew sharply on the pipe. ‘ _That._ People, at your house. _People_ , at your _house_. I thought it was some kind of joke.’

‘It is customary to host parties at one’s country estate.’ Ciel folded his arms tightly across his chest. ‘Why does everyone seem so bloody shocked?’ 

Sebastian cleared his throat from behind the couch. ‘Perhaps it is because you despise them all, sir,’ he said. 

Which wasn’t entirely untrue, but not helpful in the least. Ciel ignored him.

‘I have a plan, Lau, and your assistance would be useful.’

Lau smiled. ‘Oh, listen. The earl thinks I’m _use_ ful. All right, then; tell me.’

Ciel told him about the Queens’ request-- the dinner party and the guests and the almost-certain threat upon his life-- _some_ body’s life-- and Lau’s eyes were closed. Sleepy. But his thumb was rubbing slowly on Ran-Mao’s bare thigh, and he was listening.

‘I see,’ he said, when Ciel had finished. ‘You need a facilitator.’

‘Of sorts.’

‘And all I need to do is…suggest?’

‘Precisely.’

‘Create an atmosphere. Yes, I see. A scene. The innocent child, alone in his grand empty house, and the hand of sin is knocking at his door. He is snared in a vast conspiracy. Who shall save him?’ Lau waved his hand. And opened one eye, thoughtfully. ‘Who _is_ going to save him, Earl?’

‘This is a mission for Her Majesty.’ Ciel sniffed. ‘You can understand why the full details will be withheld from you.’

‘Hmmmm.’ Lau sighed. ‘Well, you clearly don’t trust me. _I_ don’t trust me, so I can hardly get upset, now, can I? I’ll do it. We’ll be there. Won’t we, Ran-Mao?’

The assassin turned her dark head, and she looked briefly at Ciel. ‘Wouldn’t miss it,’ she said.

‘Good,’ said Ciel. ‘I have a lot to organise and I wanted to be sure you weren’t going to ruin things.’

‘Busy little Earl.’

One of the girls was kneeling at the low lacquered table. She removed the silver cover from a little dish, as quick and careful as Sebastian might at the dinner table, and she was shaving a sliver from the dark block like sticky liquorice on the plate.

Dense, dark. Not liquorice.

‘Poppy,’ said Lau. His eyes were half-open. ‘The milk of a thousand poppy-hearts, aged and pressed. I always did have a weakness for nice things.’ The man’s limp fingers curled in Ran-Mao’s lap. ‘The souls of a million flowers, and it is _heav_ enly.’ 

‘And quite profitable, I imagine.’

‘My dear Earl,’ said Lau. ‘I don’t think you are about to begin a discussion about profit and loss.’ He shrugged his shoulders. ‘About legality, or morality, or the lack of it. You aren’t, now, are you? Not in my home.’

Ciel saw it, Lau’s sweep of a glance to the butler standing behind him, and it ruffled his thoughts. Like two adults talking over a child’s head. He didn’t much like it.

‘Stop smoking that. I can hardly think,’ he said coldly. ‘It’s getting in my throat.’

‘Oh no, my dear Earl; it isn’t my poor poppy that’s bothering you. Only the incense. This has no smoke at all.’ Lau ran his fingertip down the length of the slim pipe. ‘No smoke, only a vapour of paradise.’

Ciel coughed against his sleeve. ‘Get rid of the incense, then.’

‘If you please, Mr Lau,’ said Sebastian lightly. ‘My young master has a certain sensitivity to strong perfumes. He has a weakness in his chest, you see.’

‘It isn’t a weakness,’ Ciel said. ‘It’s an irritation. And it’s causing me trouble.’ He turned around to glance sharply at Sebastian, and back to Lau and Ran-Mao.

‘Of course, my dear Earl.’ Lau’s hand-wave was generous. All-encompassing. ‘Why didn’t you just say so?’

‘I did,’ Ciel muttered, but the man wasn’t listening, the man never listened, and one of the girls was moving at Ciel’s side, her quiet face wreathed in the swirl of smoke. She bowed, and removed the blue-painted dish, and in the wake of the trailing incense Ciel tried not to gasp at the clean air. Clean and sweet, slow air, and only the merest tightness left under his ribs.

Lau’s eyes moved, a slow dark shift beneath lowered lashes. ‘Better, Earl?’

‘Fine.’ Ciel straightened his shoulders. ‘I’m sure your guests usually manage perfectly well without breathing.’

‘Opium is really quite good for damaged lungs, you know.’

‘Next time open a window.’

‘Oh, no.’ Lau leaned his head back against the couch, and Ran-Mao settled her sleek head against his shoulder. ‘We can never do that. The smell finds its way out, you see, a wisp on the wind and anybody who knows anything will follow it here. The precious poppy, and I would have to make explanations _._ ’

Ciel could smell it properly now, the scent of the hot pipe and the oily haze inside it. Sweet, warm, toasted like a hazelnut biscuit and perfumed skin. Lau had been correct. His pipe gave out no smoke at all; only a subtle haze.

‘That’s the risk you take when you live underground like a rat,’ Ciel said coldly. ‘Somebody might step on your nest.’

‘Oh, you _are_ unkind. Is he always like this?’ To Sebastian. 

‘Frequently,’ came the reply. ‘One learns to be amused by it.’

Ciel couldn’t see the butler’s face behind him. He didn’t want to, either.

He looked sharply at Lau. ‘What you do with your time and money is no business of mine,’ he said. ‘You have your world and I have my own.’

Lau’s slow blink was like the dip of a bird’s wing, dark lashes over his long eyes. ‘The Earl is very dismissive of my little world. And I thought we were friends, too.’ He put the pipe to his lips and drew on it, and the lines of his cheeks were suddenly sharp as if they were carved from jade. 

Lau breathed out again, voluptuously slow, and the girl took the pipe from his hands again and turned it between her own. 

A silver spindle twinkled in the lamplight as she twirled it, a skewer with a dab of dark waxen paste at the tip of it, and she rubbed the paste against the outside of the hot pipe-bowl. Rolling it. A sticky dab of opium impaled and rolled and heated. Pressed tenderly into the waiting bowl of the pipe; centred. Adjusted. And she held the pipe’s bowl over the upright flame of the lamp on the table between them, and the smell was sweet as biscuits.

‘Perhaps you are a little too young to appreciate just what my business offers to the world, my dear Earl.’

Ciel snorted. ‘You’re a whore-mongering opium smuggler. I know exactly what you offer.’

‘Understand,’ said Lau, unruffled. ‘You under _stand._ You don’t appreciate.’ The girl handed the man his pipe and he drew on it again, his eyes moving with a slow swell behind closed lids. Ran-Mao was watching his face, and she shifted lightly on his lap. A roll of her hips against him. Lau smiled, eyes closed.

‘I have no desire to appreciate it,’ said Ciel. 

‘And that, my dear Earl, is how I know that you’re too young.’

The attendant girl was beside Ciel’s couch again, offering a tray of tea, and he waved her away irritably. Obscene, really, her deep bow, and her dress cut so low. 

‘We’re going,’ Ciel said, but he didn’t move. 

‘Indeed,’ said Lau, and his eyes moved again in that obnoxious slow sweep to Sebastian. ‘If I don’t let you go, little Earl, your butler is going to get very upset with me. I do believe he thinks I’m a _bad influence._ ’ His mouth pulled into a smile around the pipe-stem. ‘Corruption of the youth, and whatnot. Cor _rup_ tion.’ His smile widened, as though it was the cleverest thing he’d ever said. ‘Of the _youth._ Do you think I am capable of corrupting you, Earl?’

‘Not likely,’ Ciel said, because the man seemed to expect a reply. ‘I doubt you could show me anything I haven’t seen already.’

Ran-Mao had turned, was watching him again, and Lau’s fingers were stroking absently over her shoulder. Over the fullness of her breasts beneath the silk and down the shape of her hip.

‘Oh. You disapprove? I provide a service to the world,’ said Lau. ‘I look at people, and I have learned to see the wanting that they carry. Everybody carries it. This is a kind of philosophy, my dear Earl. _At the centre of your being you have the answer; you know who you are, and you know what you want._ Lao-Tze said that, you know.’ His closed lashes moved. ‘Everybody wants. And I provide them with a little palace of beauty. Don’t I, Ran-Mao, darling? My palace. My _huayan guan_ ; smoke and flowers.’

‘Not a lot of flowers here,’ said Ciel, and he looked at the bowl of floating camellias on the lacquered table between them. ‘You’re failing miserably in your decoration.’

Lau smiled. ‘Flowers,’ he said. ‘Blossoms. Everywhere.’

The girl stepped forwards again to fix the opium pipe, her legs moving smoothly under the sheath of her silk gown. 

Ran-Mao turned her head to blink at Ciel, and he felt himself blushing. He’d misunderstood the reference. 

He was very glad the demon was standing behind him. He didn’t need to see Sebastian’s smirk, not at this moment. He looked away, at the bowl of camellias again, the barely noticeable tremble of the ruffled flowers on the surface of the water. The edges of each petal seemed dipped in blood. They pulsed, droplets. 

‘You _do_ fascinate me, you know. So very precocious.’ Lau opened his eyes, lazily, and closed them again. ‘Clever enough to understand an addiction, surely. Is it so wrong to search for beauty in a world like this?’

Ciel frowned at the man’s sleepy face. The words stirred in his mind, and they seemed distant. _It is a weakness,_ he thought. _Addiction is always a weakness._

‘Oh?’ said Lau. ‘Harsh.’

And Ciel flushed again, in confusion, because he had spoken the words aloud. But it was true, and he wouldn’t show his irritation.

‘So very focused,’ said Lau. ‘But you say you understand. I am only a weak man, Earl. I awake to my poppy, and I turn to it when I am tired, and it is the last thing I think of when I sleep. I don’t resent something that brings me happiness. Can you understand that?’

Ciel shrugged by way of reply. 

‘What is the last thing you think of when you sleep, Earl?’

Ciel shrugged again, watching Lau’s sleepy fingers tumble into Ran-Mao’s lap. Watching her slow wriggle on her master’s knees. ‘It depends,’ he said. _Only one thing, usually._ He made sure he didn’t say it this time, biting his lip. He tried not to think of Sebastian’s wet mouth around his fingers last night. His chest felt hot. And his legs, and between them. 

Lau sighed. ‘Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps it simply isn’t flowers that you’re looking for, after all. Not flowers; not smoke. What is it you’re addicted to, little Earl?’

‘You’ve been in this business too long, Lau.’ Ciel sat still and straight on the velvet couch. ‘Not everyone has an addiction.’

The man’s eyes were suddenly open. Long and dark. And then he laughed, a soft high falling sound like scattered petals, and put his pipe down on the waiting tray.

‘No,’ he said. ‘No, that simply isn't true. And you know it as well as I do. Well. Come along.’ Ran-Mao slid off his lap and Lau stood up, shaking his long silken sleeves over his curled hands, and bowed his head. ‘If you really _must_ be going.’ 

‘We are,’ said Ciel, and cleared his throat.

Lau nodded across the couch at Sebastian as Ciel stood up slowly. ‘Take him back out into the world, Butler, before he melts into a puddle on my floor.’

Ciel looked at Lau coldly. He took the walking stick that Sebastian held out to him, and settled his top hat back on his head, and it was a little dizzying, the sweet air around him.

‘We’ll see you at the manor next week, Lau,’ he said.

‘Adieu.’ Lau’s voice, teasingly light. ‘Take care, now.’

Ciel could scarcely hear his own heels on the steps back upstairs. Infinitely slow and soft, a hum as though the world was only butterfly-wings, a distant flutter for attention at the far blinking light of his thoughts. And here was only the sigh and movement as though all the world was a hanging curtain, and a quiet wind moved behind it.

The steps were long, but the way seemed very simple. Beautifully simple. A step is a prayer. The Buddhist teachings were quite right.

He stumbled and a strong hand caught his elbow. 

‘Dear me, sir.’ Warm as the haze in the room below. ‘I do believe you inhaled a little too deeply, after all.’

The last three steps he didn’t take at all, it was easy as floating, and then the light was cold and grey as ruthless dawn and he blinked. The street, the long grey river and the sodden sky, and Sebastian was wearing that terrible small smile. 

The butler was carrying him. 

‘Damn you,’ said Ciel. His own voice was a whisper far away. ‘Put me down.’

‘The coach is just here, my lord. A moment.’ 

The coach _was_ just here, too, tucked at the mouth of the alleyway. The horses were shifting their hooves, restless in the foul river wind. The air seemed to lick at Ciel’s face with coldness but his shoulder burned against Sebastian’s chest. 

The butler’s boots echoed in the drip of the alleyway. Up here it was daytime again, and it should have felt quite real but it did not. Subterranean darkness is a gown one wears, a shadow of hushed velvet in one’s mind, and it hung from the demon’s body like a veil.

Sebastian glanced down at his master’s upturned face and looked away again.

Ciel realised he’d curled his fingers unconsciously around the butler’s coat lapel. He let it go. 

The ragged boy was still holding the horses’ reins. His puckish small face was ancient as a statue’s. Sebastian flicked him the shilling, a blur of silver in the murk between brick walls, and the boy scattered away, less human than animal.

‘One moment more, sir,’ said the demon.

Then the swing of Sebastian’s light step up to the foot-iron, and through the door into the dim resinous scent of the carriage; and there, Ciel was set on his feet and Sebastian was taking the cane from his hand and laying it on the seat. And his top hat, and Sebastian was sitting down on the seat beside him.

The coach door closed with a thump, and it rippled through Ciel as though he was a pond beneath the moon.

‘Here, my lord.’ 

Sebastian had him firmly by the elbow. He was spun, turned on his heel. He stepped back, stumbling at the demon’s lap, and stopped. Secured. 

Sebastian’s buttoned chest was solid behind him, the only solid thing in the soft-edged dribble of the world, and he was tucked between the demon’s spread knees. He closed his eyes.

‘Breathe, now, sir.’ 

And Ciel had nearly forgotten to. Ridiculous. The air seemed full of cloud. It was soft in his mouth. Ridiculous. ‘It’s only poppy,’ he said. The words were in there, if he felt for them. ‘I’ve laudanum before.’

And he had. He knew this feeling. Long ago. Mother had given him a spoonful from the little brown bottle when his cough got bad. When it shook him to pieces. He wasn’t shaking now. His body was very still.

‘Laudanum.’ He felt Sebastian’s hand settle on his hip. ‘I see.’ And the hand was slipping under Ciel’s jacket. Untucking his shirt, and pushing under that, too, and feeling him. Slowly over his ribs. Over his chest. 

Ciel’s belly was quivering.

‘And did you like the laudanum, young master?’

Ciel felt the strong fingers press at his breastbone. Higher. It couldn’t be real. It was very far away. But it was too close. He was going to melt. The demon’s gloved hand was spread flat and cool on his bare skin beneath the shirt. He could feel his own heart thrum against Sebastian’s palm. If the demon pushed a little harder his hand might collapse into the mess of Ciel’s ribs. But there would be no bones, only burnt sugar. Feathers.

‘It was bitter,’ he said. 

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. ‘But this is not.’ Ciel breathed carefully. The air was snagging deep in his chest. ‘This is very sweet.’ The strong hand slid down again, and over the front of his shorts. ‘Dear me, sir. The opium vapours appear to have caused you some discomfort.’

No discomfort at all, only a drift like water through him. Slow. Achingly good. And Sebastian’s fingers stirring between his legs.

‘Get off,’ Ciel said, but it was only a whisper. 

‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said the demon. ‘I didn’t quite hear you.’ Sebastian’s hand slid lower. Squeezed.

'Damn you.' Ciel shivered. ‘You knew.’ The air seemed to lick inside his lungs.

‘Knew, sir?’ asked Sebastian. As innocently as if he wasn’t kneading his fingertips into his master’s flesh.

‘You knew. What I was breathing in.’

‘It is an opium den, my lord. _You_ knew what you were breathing in. But as for the calculations of the air volume within a closed environment and the effects of such a concentration of suspended morphine upon a child’s system--’ His fingers curled tightly. Ciel gasped. ‘Well. I guessed, sir.’

Sebastian’s fingers moved at Ciel’s waistband. Unbuttoning. ‘Sleepiness I anticipated. Your heart-rate I held some concern for, but it appears to be remaining steady. Your arousal I had not expected.’ The butler pushed his cool leather-gloved fingers inside Ciel’s open shorts. ‘But It is nothing that can’t be managed, my lord.’

Oh, that hand. Kneading him, pulling, pressing, like the bead of sticky opium rolled against the pipe-bowl. Teased out, long and sweet as spun sugar, and his legs were liquid. 

Ciel wanted to collapse against Sebastian’s shoulder. 

He held his head up stiffly.

He wanted to tell his servant to stop.

No, he didn’t.

He braced his fists on the demon’s thighs spread either side of him, holding steady. And Sebastian’s cheek was very close beside his.

‘You may ask for what you want, my lord.’ Quietly. ‘If you want more.’

Ciel closed his eyes. ‘No,’ he said, ‘just this.’

It would be too dangerous, that terrible hot mouth down there _,_ too much, and he wanted only this, the drift, and the strong fingers.

‘I see,’ said the butler, and Ciel felt the shorts slither down his legs. Down to his ankles, and his left leg was swept up across the butler’s knee. Sebastian was pulling off his driving glove, dragging it off between his teeth. Ciel could hear the slip of the leather beside his ear. 

The touch of his servant’s bare fingertips was hot behind Ciel’s hooked-up knee, and he opened his eyes.

‘Softly, now,’ said the demon.

The black-nailed hand was sliding warm over Ciel’s naked thigh; long fingers, long enough to curl around his leg and clamp it, ivory-pale against his own skin, his own pebbled petal-white. Sebastian’s seal showed like ink on parchment as his hand paused, and curled. 

Ciel’s breaths were slowed. Heavy. Stirring deep in his lungs. Bare fingers on his leg, and gloved around his shaft.

And Ciel had been wrong. He had been wrong, and oh, the vile mouth was most dangerous of all when it brushed at his ear and _spoke_ to him. 

‘Was Mr Lau correct? You are quite precocious, sir. Are you old enough to appreciate pleasure?’ The demon’s voice was more breath than sound. Hot on his cheek. Hard as the grip between his legs. ‘You know what it is you want, my lord. At the centre of your being.’ Sebastian’s thumb stroked at his thigh. ‘You know your own addictions.’

Ciel watched as the demon’s bare hand slid over his hip, lightly. And down, hot between his legs.

He closed his eyes again and he was tumbling, tumbling in the drift of petals in his mind, in the tremor of his cock between Sebastian’s fingers and the slow slide of the sharp-nailed fingertip, a soft tickle down the seam of his body and back up. And back down, teasing, sliding between the squish of his pouch and the uneasy flutter of his hole.

Ciel’s body stiffened. He remembered the brief press of the demon’s tongue down there, the night the beast had bitten him. But Sebastian’s touch didn’t linger, only slipped back up again, smoothly, the merest edge of nail, and Ciel let his fists loosen on the butler’s thighs. 

He felt as though his bones would melt.

‘ _Papaver somniferum._ The sweetest sleep for small mortal creatures. You are so very harsh to Mr Lau about his work, my lord. But you know what it is that he offers. Have you never wanted to sleep soundly?’

Ciel’s bed, his cold bed seemed very far away. And the memory of his pillow, wet with tears. The long night. The empty dawn. ‘I sleep,’ he said.

‘Not well, young master.’

‘Who does?’ His heartbeat seemed to flutter. But slowly. Long swoops, bird-slow. Distant.

‘Nobody,’ said the demon in his ear. ‘Nobody, until the end. Every sleep is only a lie, a falsity. And everyone is so very tired, sir.’ His voice was quiet. A shadow of sound.

‘ _Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness,_

_And utterly consumed with sharp distress,_

_While all things else have rest from weariness?_ ’

That was Tennyson. _The Lotos-eaters._ Ciel had learnt this one off by heart long ago, hands folded tidily as he recited: _Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast._ He could hear it. Their two voices alternating, in their father’s quiet library: _Let us alone. What is it that will last?_

‘Falsity.’ Ciel swallowed. His mouth was dry. His tongue ached. ‘Everything is lies. I’m used to it.’

And it seemed important that he remember this. The velvet pad over a lion’s claw. The softness of the smile over sharpened teeth. The nesting petals cupped around corruption. Important. Because sometimes it didn’t seem to matter much.

 _Let us alone._ Ciel whispered it. 

And he heard the words of the poem again, but they were rich as caramel beside his cheek.

‘ _What pleasure can we have_

 _To war with evil?_ ’

The demon was laughing, and the sound trembled beneath Ciel’s skin. Sebastian’s hand was soft on Ciel’s cock. And squeezed. ‘My little lord must have his taste of sweetness.’

Liquid pleasure, a trickle through his spine like honey drizzling, and Ciel rested his head back, limp against the demon’s shoulder. Sebastian was there. And warm, and steady. His grip was tight. His trailing finger was hot.

‘The only sweetness is sleep, sir. And the only sleep is death.’

And he was right. And nothing mattered. Ciel was tired. It weighed every part of him, like heavy silk laid over his bare skin. Dragging softly. Soft as sleep. As perfect. As final. Moving like the demon against him. And it was slow. Everywhere. 

And best, worst, the press of the demon’s finger at the flutter of his hole.

‘This,’ said Sebastian. ‘Do you like it, sir?’

Ciel could feel himself shivering, and the demon’s touch was insistent. Pressing at the tender gathered flesh. He knew what his servant wanted to do.

‘No,’ he said.

The pressure at his entrance eased away and Ciel breathed out. A swirl, a swing, the haze behind his closed eyes as Sebastian teased his heated shaft. And the demon’s words were hushed. As calm, as distant as if it were another lesson. 

‘ _All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave_

_In silence; ripen, fall and cease:_

_Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease._ ’

The lapping softness was a tide, and he was submerged beneath.

And then he felt the touch brush at his chin. Softly, tapping at his lower lip, and the demon’s whisper. 

‘Open for me.’

Ciel opened, and Sebastian’s finger was sudden and warm between his lips. Firm against his tongue, and the touch quivered through his mouth, through his body like melting cream. His demon’s finger, and he tasted it, and it sloshed in the liquid dip inside his cheek.

Slowly. Stroking at the roof of his mouth, and running along the ridge of his teeth. Pushing under his tongue. Finding the slippery corners of him. Feeling.

‘Can you suck?’ 

He did. His legs felt weak and damp. 

‘Very good, my lord.’ Sebastian sighed beside his ear. Hot down his neck. ‘Your greed has always been remarkable. Harder.’

He did. 

‘Harder.’ 

Ciel felt the demon’s nail catch at the tender roof of his mouth.

Sebastian grunted. And pulled his finger out, and this time the touch at Ciel’s hole was hot and wet and he wanted to tense but it was so soft, such a tease at the pucker of his body. Pressing, dipping. Circling. Lightly, and Ciel sighed. 

How could he feel it everywhere? Everywhere. His belly, a hum through his blood. His hands were icy, braced on Sebastian’s legs.

His head was heavy. 

A pulse was pressing against him at his back, a pulse like the devil’s heartbeat, hot and hard against his tailbone. Sharp in his mind. A thorn in velvet. He arched, shifting his hips. Sebastian made a sound beside his ear. 

And Ciel remembered what he was pushing back against. The beast’s arousal stiff at his spine, and Sebastian was cupping him close against it, holding him still, teasing him with the flutter of his hot finger. The swirl. And the press.

‘I want to hear you say it, young master. Do you like this?’ Sebastian pushed the fingertip a little harder and Ciel squeezed his eyes tight. Breathing. Velvet.

‘Yes,’ he whispered, before he could remember to say _no._

‘Oh, sir,’ said the demon.

Ciel wanted to moan. He wanted the wave of darkness to break through him. He needed to stay silent.

‘Softly,’ said Sebastian.

The fingertip pushed inside. Just within him, and Ciel’s noise was low, panting. 

The warmth of Sebastian’s body behind him, around him, tugging him, and the burn of the fingertip, sharp-nailed, and the breaths, oh hell, and he felt it. His skin rippled gold. He _felt_ it. It stung so beautifully and he clenched at it, wanting, wanting. He pulsed, a living bud, and the demon’s touch pressed at the centre of him like a snake in the heart of a lily. 

He knew what he wanted. It ached through his legs. Through his shivering cock. Opening, his entire body a gasp at sweetness. Infinite, glistening. Unfolding like a flower. 

He breathed in, unsteadily. ‘Sebastian.’

‘My lord.’

‘More.’ Ciel breathed out. ‘More. Everything.’ And even as he said it, he was afraid he knew what the demon’s idea of _everything_ might be.

Silence at his shoulder, and the point of the finger twitched against him. ‘I shall choose to see that as a suggestion, and not an order, sir. And a suggestion may be countered with another.’ The voice was soft. ‘If you want something more, you must be quite specific. Is it wider you want? Or deeper?’

Ciel didn’t answer. 

Couldn’t answer, because Sebastian was sliding his finger into him and it burned like unholy fire and it was pushing in to the very knuckle and it was piercing, blackness, a storm in his ears and deep in his belly and Ciel made a choking sound and came with a spatter on his own boots.

‘There,’ said the demon quietly. ‘Apparently you wanted both.’ 

Ciel was silent, his legs trembling, and he still clenched, clenched around the hardness inside him. Sebastian waited. Ciel pressed his lips together to hold in the sound because it stung suddenly, he could feel everything again, everything, and the world was very real. He tried not to shake. And he felt the slide of Sebastian’s hot finger out of his body.

Ciel said nothing. He stood still, eyes closed, cheeks flushed miserably, as the butler set his feet together on the ground and pulled up the shorts. Buttoned them. And the shift as Sebastian moved him, sat him down on the bench seat, and he opened his eyes then, tense, wary, and saw the butler kneeling on the floor of the coach at his feet.

Sebastian was rubbing at the toe of his master’s polished boot with one fingertip. Wiping up the filthy glisten. 

‘Dear me,’ he said. ‘You do make a mess of things, my lord.’ 

The demon knelt back on his heels and licked his bare fingers, his pale tongue sucking slowly around the neat black nails. One finger, and two. Wet, deliberate; and Sebastian smiled up at him.

Ciel swallowed as though a bird was trapped in his throat. 

He closed his eyes.

The coach swayed as the door opened and was shut again, and he heard the scuffle of his butler swinging up to the driver’s seat outside. And he was alone in the carriage again. 

The slow clatter of iron-shod hooves echoed in the overhanging alley. In the coach, and in his head.

_Give us long rest or death._

It had been too simple, the slide of the demon’s hands over him. As simple as falling asleep. 

The words were still thrumming through his blood.

_How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream,_

_With half-shut eyes ever to seem_

_Falling asleep in a half-dream!_

The coach was rolling. Ciel rested his head in the rattling corner of the seat, the angle between leather and varnished wood. 

_Let what is broken so remain._

He knew what he wanted. He felt the hollow of it. He couldn’t hide it.

_Let what is broken so remain._

_The Gods are hard to reconcile._

And now the demon knew it, too.

  
  
  



	9. propter {on account of}

On a good day, the coach ride home from London would take an hour. 

Ciel wasn’t sure how long it was taking today. But it felt like years. It was not a good day. 

His head still swam as the carriage rattled over the damp cobblestoned streets. By the time the rambling slums of outer London had faded away into sodden pasture past his window, he felt clearer, sharper. And long before the road began to wind up the broken flats towards the ridge and the pine trees and his house, the earl’s thoughts were painfully inescapable. 

He’d sucked on his servant’s finger like a common alley slut. And he’d taken the finger inside him. And asked for more.

Ciel bit his lip. 

At the taste of the demon’s finger he’d half-tensed, somewhere in his mind; he’d expected Sebastian would want something else from him. Sebastian had threatened that, hadn’t he? In the kitchen last night. And the thought of being forced to put _that_ in his mouth was enough to make Ciel hot and sick and dizzy all at once. He'd rather not think at all about such things.

But Sebastian’s touch had burned between his legs. It had moved into him so softly. Pierced him so sharply, and he’d opened for it. For that brief shivering moment he'd been prepared for everything. Ciel held his breath, and pinned the thought steady in his mind. 

He’d been prepared for Sebastian to fuck him. And foolish enough to show it. And Sebastian had ignored his order. 

When had the demon ever spared him? Every word, every look was cause for torment. An excuse for insubordination. He’d given his servant permission, given him far too open a suggestion-- and even in the empty carriage Ciel’s cheeks were still hot, he could feel it-- and Sebastian hadn’t done anything. He’d only finished his master off with his usual ruthless efficiency and brought him home.

‘Oh hell,’ said the Earl of Phantomhive, aloud in the silence, and it didn’t help in the slightest.

Sebastian had been aroused, Ciel knew it. But the demon hadn’t wanted anything. It would almost have been better if he had. 

Ciel groaned against the sleeve of his coat. It would almost have been better if the demon had simply done what he’d expected, done the damn thing and finished this whole mess and he’d be able to breathe again. And if he held that thought in his mind, it burned him. 

The coach pulled up at the bottom of his front steps. As always. 

And Ciel got out, as always, although he kept his gaze fixed firmly in front of him. 

Sebastian was waiting, his hand outstretched. Ciel didn’t take it.

And when Mey-rin held the front door open, waiting at the top of the steps, he didn’t go up. He heard the coach crunch away slowly along the gravel drive, around the angle of the house, and he hesitated. 

If he waited, he would never speak of it. He would go inside, and he would be home again. The Present would become the Past. But he would want to know, and if he weakened later and asked it would only show how much he’d been thinking about it.

And he was thinking about it.

Ciel made his way around the side of the house, his cane held tightly behind his back, and that was how he came to follow his butler into the stables for the second time in one day. 

He had never planned to make a habit of this.

The coach was still pulled up to the open double-doors, and Ciel rounded it slowly. It was dim and straw-dusty in here, and he found his servant by the stamp of the horses’ hooves rather than by sight. He stopped outside the stalls, watching as Sebastian removed the heavy harness bridles from the coach pair, and replaced them with their hempen stable halters. 

The butler’s gloved hands moved over the horses’ muzzles lightly. He didn’t turn. ‘My lord. I shall be inside in just a moment.’

‘My lunch.’

‘I am aware, young master. Ransom is off his oats again.’

Ciel stared. The horse. Sebastian meant the horse. 

‘I take it you need something, sir.’ The butler was dusting off his black gloves briskly.

‘No.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian turned back to the coach, and stepped up the cast-iron coach-step to the driver’s bench. He was unhooking the heavy horse-whip from its mount beside the footboard, and tucked it under his arm to descend again. ‘I am conscious of the fact that your lunch was due eighteen minutes ago, sir. I shall be as quick as I can.’

‘No,’ said Ciel again, and Sebastian stopped a few steps away from him.

‘No, sir?’

Ciel kept his eyes fixed on the cobwebbed rafters above the stable door, on the tacked-up horseshoe, nailed into the timbers for luck. ‘You disobeyed me.’ He swallowed. ‘In the coach today.’ And he risked a glance.

He knew Sebastian wouldn’t make this easy. He expected a blank expression, a pretence at innocence. He didn’t expect Sebastian’s shrug.

‘I was not aware it was an order, sir.’ 

Was the bastard going to speak so lightly, so easily of these things? Ciel clenched his hands behind his back. ‘I wasn’t aware an order would be required.’

‘Well, young master.’ Sebastian’s voice was thoughtful. ‘It is a matter of timing, you see. We were late enough as it was without further delays.’

‘I see. And that’s all.’

‘A Phantomhive servant must take his schedule very seriously, my lord.’

The butler was mocking him, and it burned Ciel’s skin like acid. He turned and saw Sebastian rolling the polished rod of the horse-whip in his gloved hands. 

‘Is that not reason enough, sir?’

Ciel had no reply.

‘Besides,’ said Sebastian, softly, as though he were alone in the dusty silence of the shadowed stables. ‘The wind was cold today and I thought it wise to get the horses home.’

‘You are concerned for my carriage team, are you?’ Ciel couldn’t keep the pointed bitterness from his voice.

‘It is a simple point of animal management, my lord.’ Sebastian flicked his wrist and the long lash of the leather whip cracked sharp as a gunshot. 

Ciel flinched. He wished he hadn’t. 

In the stables boxes behind them one of the horses nickered uneasily. 

‘One must treat a sensitive creature with caution.’ Sebastian tilted his dark head. ‘It must be cared for, and considered. If you wave the whip recklessly, you’ll never tame it.’

The demon had said those words before; Ciel remembered it. At the Circus, a few weeks ago, when Sebastian first stepped down to the arena and faced the lion, and the lion-taming girl with her braided whip; and the butler had spoken to her. Back before the last of the circus troupe had been killed, before Ciel had ordered the demon to burn the Baron’s house, before they had first infiltrated the troupe, or lied to them, or drawn out their secrets-- or whatever it was Sebastian had done to the lion-taming girl before the end. Their end, everyone’s end. Fire.

Ciel looked at the demon. The beautiful pale face was pleasantly composed. But the dark eyes were focused. Pitch and topaz. Sebastian was watching him with steady and infinite cruelty.

Ciel knew he was flushing deeply. He had never expected the demon to make this easy. But he wondered if he had ever hated Sebastian quite so much as he did at this moment.

‘I see,’ he said. It came out a little breathless. ‘A sound enough reason.’

‘Indeed, sir,’ said Sebastian. He stirred his wrist again, and the tail of the horse-whip shifted in the straw at their feet. Loose across the polished toes of Ciel’s boots. ‘Two sound reasons, in fact, and a third; you were half-insensible with opium, my lord. More asleep than awake.’ 

Ciel’s throat was so tight he could barely speak. The demon must know what those words in the coach had cost his master. What it was costing him now. ‘You think I wasn’t aware of what I was saying?’

‘Oh,’ said Sebastian. ‘I think you were, my lord.’ He bowed his dark head, and when he raised it his gaze was poisonously bright. ‘You know precisely what you desire. But I have always intended to look you in the eye when I take you.’

There was silence.

The butler turned away to the saddle-rack to hang up the horse-whip. 

Ciel could only stand there. He swallowed at the burning in his throat. 

And went back out to the blustering daylight, to the gravel drive and the echo of the bare front steps, and Mey-rin’s flustered curtsey at the door. And the foyer, and he dumped his hat and walking-stick on the marble floor. Struggled out of his great-coat, and left that, too. And he went upstairs to his office and closed the door.

He leaned against it. He wasn’t panicking. Of course this wasn’t panic.

‘Shit,’ said Ciel. ‘Shit.’

******************

Ciel did not go down for lunch. He didn't look up from his desk when Sebastian came in to announce it. 

‘I’ll eat it here,’ he said. Coldly. And turned a page of the file in front of him as though Funtom’s French export figures were the only thing in his mind, as though he wasn’t painfully aware of the dark figure in the corner of his vision.

‘Yes, sir.’

The butler returned a few minutes later with the tray, and the covered bowl, and the buttered bread, and Ciel was left to work in silence with the scent of creamed asparagus soup and a filthy head-ache.

He ate, though. He had to do something.

The demon’s complacency. His certainty --

Ciel felt sick. He tried to read. He couldn’t. He needed a strategy and he had nothing. And he put his head down on his desk. 

He stayed in the office for the rest of the day. He went and fetched three glasses of water from the bathroom sink, and drank them. He didn’t ring for tea, though he desperately wanted some. His hands felt like ice. And Sebastian didn’t bring any up. The butler was going to make him ask. Ciel was not going to ask.

At five minutes to seven, he heard the light knock, and he sat up at his desk. He didn’t breathe properly from the moment the butler opened the office door. 

It was too much, even Sebastian’s movement in the room. Those sordid eyes were unbearable. Ciel couldn’t believe he could ever have asked the creature to stand beside his bed at night. 

He couldn’t believe he’d told it to stay, that first strange evening when it had touched him, taken him onto its lap, when it had told him a story and shown him the terrible pleasure of its mouth. Valentine’s Day. Ciel winced. And he had allowed it. He’d wanted it beside him, the warmth of the demon's silence.

What had he expected?

It seemed long ago. And the memory was as foolish as if he’d read it somewhere. There was no comfort in Sebastian’s presence. 

‘Your dinner is ready, my lord.’

Ciel had no plans to raise his eyes from his work. ‘I know.’

A pause. ‘The bread rolls will get cold if you are not seated soon, young master.’

And Ciel sighed. And put down his files, and went downstairs. 

He walked a little more slowly than he needed to, though. Really. Was the meal there to serve him, or was he only at the table for the food’s convenience? Sebastian didn’t seem to know the difference.

The dinner was perfect, braised beef in a slick glimmer of red wine. The bread rolls were warm, of course. And every bite was utter torment.

Sebastian was watching him. Ciel could feel it. The movement of fork to mouth, his lips at the glass’s rim, the shift of his thighs against the dining chair. The crease of his shirt-collar into his throat. The breath in his lungs. The dampening of sweat along his temples.

He was afraid to look at his servant, because he knew Sebastian would be smiling.

And he wanted to scream, but he didn’t know what to say.

Dessert was a milk jelly. Ciel managed two mouthfuls.

But he did not push his bowl away, not for a long time, though he only sat staring at the painted butterflies around the gilded edge. Because if he pushed his bowl away his meal would be over. And then Sebastian would pull back his chair, and it would be upstairs and the hush of his study again and then bath-time and undressing and he wasn’t ready yet, not tonight, not for those eyes and that particular gaze moving down his body.

The clock struck a quarter to eight. He had been sitting at the table for forty-five minutes and eaten almost nothing.

There was no helping it. 

Ciel pushed away his dessert plate, and Sebastian bowed, and the evening fell into the inevitable clockwork.

‘I have lit the fire for you in your study, young master.’ The butler was at his heels on the long staircase.

‘I won’t be in there,’ said Ciel, and it was only to be contrary, even he knew that, but he didn’t _want_ to sit for an hour, waiting. Thinking. He was sick to death of the whole day. ‘It’s cold. I’ll read once I’m in bed. Run the bath.’

A pause. ‘As you please, sir.’ 

And Sebastian flicked a look at him as he passed towards the bedroom, quietly and horribly amused, and Ciel stopped in the hallway. But there was nowhere to go. There was nowhere to hide. 

And he went in to his study, to hunt on his desk amongst the books and papers for the thing he wanted, and to avoid the sound of his butler moving in the cool echo of the bathroom. He found it beneath the stack of tax records. The Strand Magazine, and he walked slowly back to his room to leave it on the commode.

And then Sebastian was waiting, silent in the doorway, and he had to go.

The bath was every bit as terrible as Ciel had imagined.

And he wasn’t even looking at Sebastian. He kept his eyes on the bathmat as he was undressed. The slow revealing of his shame. Ciel stood still, holding the edge of the bath as the butler unwrapped the muslin bandage from his foot.

And when he stepped into the waiting water, he sunk deep into it, his mind fixed firmly elsewhere. Almost. He was trying. He didn’t want to think about anything. He wasn’t going to think. But how could he still feel the demon watching him? A gaze like a trail of claws over his chest, his belly. And lower. 

And he could still see, even without looking, the details of their routine. The movement of Sebastian’s hands, and the soft towel laid waiting over the wooden chair. The setting-out of the soap-dish and the wash-cloth. The black tailcoat being hung on the back of the chair; and Ciel glanced over at his butler. Sebastian was rolling up his sleeves, and his lean forearms were as pale, as white as the starched shirt itself. 

And there was a glass jar of liquid Castile soap beside the wash-cloth, and Ciel cleared his throat, because this was not their routine.

‘You needn’t worry about my hair.’

Sebastian didn’t answer as he poured a drizzle of golden soap into his palm. And then he glanced up. ‘You have your duties, my lord, and I have mine.’

Ciel closed his eyes. There was nowhere to hide.

He felt Sebastian's fingers slide through his damp hair. Strong, slow, much slower than was necessary, and Ciel willed himself to sit still. To sit tensely. The air smelt of lavender.

The lather bubbled at his ears, and trickled hot down the back of his neck. Sebastian’s hands followed it, moving in sweeps across his head as the butler worked the soap deep into his master’s hair.

It felt good. The demon knew it. Ciel felt his shoulders soften. His head was heavy. And he bit his lip. 

The bubbles tickled his forehead. And slid down into his lashes, and Ciel squeezed his eyes shut tighter, waiting for the sting; but Sebastian’s fingers slicked the slip of lather back. Smoothed back his hair, and rubbed down his nape in long gliding strokes. 

The touches rippled hot down the length of Ciel’s back and into his knees. 

Last night’s cut throbbed in the arch of his foot.

He let his head rest back in Sebastian’s hands. 

It was silent in the bathroom, and Ciel thought he heard the butler sigh above him. His body was trembling. And he pulled himself away from the demon’s hands to slide beneath the deep hot water and rinse the froth of lather from his hair. When he came up, blinking, Sebastian was holding the white towel ready for him. 

And Ciel got out of the bath. 

He allowed the butler to wrap the towel around his shoulders and he went back through the dim dressing room to his bedside. He heard Sebastian gathering up his tail-coat, and letting out the bath-water, and switching off the light behind them.

When he entered, Sebastian dropped his coat on the foot of his master’s bed. Ciel didn’t glance over.

The buzz of heat still warmed him as the butler dried him down. His hair, a tumble around his ears. His neck, and down his naked chest. His hips. And Ciel was trying to find a place to look that wasn’t Sebastian but the demon was kneeling at his feet, working the soft towel down down his calf, and Ciel couldn’t help watching. The line of Sebastian’s shoulders, and the dark strand of hair slipping across his lowered eyes. The flex of his forearms. His slim gloved hands, still damp. 

The part of the demon’s spread knees; and Ciel cleared his throat. 

It made too much noise. He was afraid Sebastian would look up at him.

Then the butler was finally finished and Ciel rubbed at his bare arms, waiting, but Sebastian didn’t reach for the waiting nightgown. Didn’t even look at it. 

The demon put down the towel, and held out his hand. ‘Come here.’

Ciel’s whole body chilled. He felt faint. ‘Don’t tell me what to do,’ he said. 

Sebastian tilted his head, watching him. And sighed. ‘Come here. If you please. Sir.’

And what was Ciel supposed to do? Every show of obedience was another concession. Sebastian’s face was patient, but his long-lashed eyes were sharp. Unreadable. Ciel looked away from them. He didn’t move.

The demon sighed again, more shortly. And caught at Ciel’s wrist and tugged him closer and Ciel stepped forwards, and he could hardly breathe as Sebastian’s hands settled warm on his hips, cupping him carefully, and the demon’s lips touched at Ciel’s belly. 

And brushed over his hip-bone.

And bent to his thigh, and it was almost too much, his servant’s mouth. Ciel could feel his bare cock fluttering, hot as his cheeks. He didn’t want to look at it. He looked at Sebastian’s dark lowered lashes instead.

Ciel was shivering. The room wasn’t cold.

‘Do you like this, my lord?’ The demon didn’t raise his eyes.

And Ciel breathed out. ‘Yes.’

‘Yes,’ said the demon, slow with satisfaction. Against his thigh. Its tongue was hot. ‘I thought you would, sir. I thought you wanted it.’

And it was sucking at Ciel’s skin, and it burned him. His bones. His eyelids. His throat, and Ciel pulled his leg away from Sebastian’s touch.

‘Not like that,’ he said.

The demon knelt back and looked up at him, brushing away the strand of its hair. ‘Sir.’ The question, its eyes as flat and stupid as a dog’s. 

‘Not like _that._ ’ Not a touch like chocolate, not liquid over his skin, not soft-mouthed on his body, tasting him. 

Not as though he was a girl. And if he had to explain it, if the demon was going to make him say it--

‘I thought this pleased you, my lord.’ Sebastian’s gaze was steady. His brows arched. ‘Is it not to your liking?’

Ciel’s chest hummed furiously. The demon thought himself so clever. Oh, he thought he knew exactly what they wanted, everyone. 

But not Ciel. 

His words trembled in his mouth. ‘I don’t want it,’ he said.

‘My lord.’ And Sebastian’s eyes narrowed, laughing. Malicious. ‘You’re half a breath away from spending on the carpet. And you expect me to believe you.’

Ciel’s ears burned. His neck, and his chest. How did the thing _dare_? He wanted to be sick. ‘Watch how you speak to me.’

‘Don’t be tiresome, sir.’

‘Tiresome--’ 

Sebastian sighed. He knelt up again, and Ciel’s faltering eyes met the demon’s relentless ones. And the butler raised his hand, and the curl of his gloved finger was cotton-cool under Ciel’s chin.

‘There’s very little point in protesting now, my lord. It’s nothing that I haven’t done before. Now. Do you want me to continue, or shall I leave you alone?’

The derision in his tone was unbearable. 

Ciel looked at him. At the twist of Sebastian’s thin mouth. His long eyes; lovely, contemptuous. ‘Go, then,’ he said.

‘Really, sir,’ Sebastian said, ‘you are quite something. The habit of denial exalted to an art-form.’ His hand curled under Ciel’s chin. Warm along his cheek. And the demon smiled, slowly, and his whole face seemed to shiver like a meadow under wind. 

Ciel wanted to pull away from the mocking touch. He wanted to scratch his servant’s face. He held very still. ‘I hate you,’ he said.

The demon’s hand moved down his throat. ‘I would be more concerned if you did not, my lord.’ And Sebastian bent his head. 

‘Don’t,’ said Ciel hoarsely. ‘Don’t touch me.’ The bastard was going to kiss him. Ciel put up his hand. His fist at the butler’s collar. ‘Shall I command you?’

Sebastian stopped. He licked his lips, and his sharp sigh was hot on Ciel’s face. ‘My lord, if--’

‘You heard me.’

The demon sat back on his heels again, his hands curled open on his spread knees. ‘Sir,’ he said. Hushed. And his pale face was steady, but Ciel could sense a diffusion at the edge of his vision. The black pulse of shadow, coiling across the hand-span of carpet between them. Pooling at Ciel’s bare feet.

Stirring over his toes, and it was as strange and unsettling, a soft hot press on his flesh that somehow burned ice-cold in his spine.

‘I said don’t touch me.’

‘I haven’t moved, young master.’ That face. He needed three good lashes over it.

‘ _That_ ,’ said Ciel, and he waved his hand at the tendrils coiling at his feet. ‘I can feel it. Can it feel me?’

The demon met his gaze, unblinking. ‘Yes.’

‘Then you’re touching me. I said to stop.’

The tendrils were sliding around his ankles. And higher. Ciel gasped. ‘That’s an order,’ he said, and his hands curled tight.

Sebastian looked at him. The slit of his eyes was vicious. The room was silent. ‘Yes, my lord.’ 

The butler stood. And the air seemed to shudder, and the coil of shadow tucked itself back into the careful silhouette of the dark tail-coat.

Ciel stood tensely, watching. 

But Sebastian did not look at him again as he moved, reaching for his master’s waiting nightgown, and slid the cool slither of it over Ciel’s inflamed body.

And the butler turned back the corner of his master’s covers. And shuffled another scoop of coals into the deep roar of the fire, and picked up his tail-coat, and took the candelabra when he closed the bedroom door behind him.

Ciel climbed beneath his blankets. He wanted to weep. He did not. 

He would not allow himself. Could not, because tonight the clench of need in his body was too heavy. And it wasn’t even the need for the demon’s tongue on his skin, though he wanted it. It wasn’t for the strong finger sliding between his legs, though he ached, _ached_ for it, and pushed his own hand beneath his nightgown to hold his thickened cock.

He could close his eyes, and feel his own desperation quiver in his palm. He could feel the sickening roil of wounded pride. The weight of something much too close to disappointment. The utter weariness, waiting for the sleep that would not come.

But Ciel could not allow himself to cry for the pain in his ribs. For the need of Sebastian’s breath hot in his hair, and his strong body beside him in the dark.

  
  


****************

It was no more than the distant hum of wind around the manor roof, at first, and Sebastian ignored it. It was late. 

So late it was almost early, and he was only half-way through the estimated costings for the upcoming weekend his master was hosting. The earl managed his business accounts, and the butler managed household ones-- or rather, Tanaka did, and every scrap of unfinished work settled in Sebastian’s lap-- but this was going to be business, wasn’t it? A mission from Her Majesty. Well, then. Funtom could pay for it. Truffle-stuffed quails aren’t cheap in this economy. 

Sebastian scribbled in the price, and the steel nib of his pen bit deep into the notepaper. 

He had been in worse moods, of course. 

That time in Prague. The plague. With the reapers. That had almost certainly been a worse mood.

Not by much, though.

The noise shivered through the chilly air again and prickled this time, humming in his left hand, and the demon put down his pen. 

_Help. Help us._ The earl was calling. 

And then a pull, a visceral stab through the demon’s body; the name his master had given him was both his muzzle and his strength. An echo in his blood, uncomfortably; _Sebastian,_ said the child. It was a confusion of sound. Sobbing. _Sebastian._

The demon wanted to ignore it. But he was bound to it. He had been the one to make this promise. It would drag him down to his master’s room eventually. And it almost stirred him, his name in the child’s mouth. His master might refuse to moan the name in desire, but he would always weep it in his terrors.

Tonight, though; Sebastian was not in the mood for this. The little tease had almost been begging for it in the coach today. But it had not been enough. 

Had any mortal had ever desired him so clearly and resisted so coldly?

No. _No_. 

Sebastian scuffed back his chair with a growl and stood. And pulled on his tailcoat, and went downstairs with the candle. The brat must have had a nightmare. Now Sebastian would lose the rest of his night, three hours wasted on standing in the shadows by his master’s bed before he could finally retire and boil the kettle and try to fit an entire morning’s breakfast preparation into twelve hurried minutes.

This was not the evening he’d anticipated.

The demon listened at his master’s door, but it was only a shadow of mortal formality; he’d heard the weeping long before he reached the end of the silent hallway.

He set his face carefully. And entered, and the boy was no more than a mountain of blankets in the middle of the vast canopied bed. 

‘Young master,’ said Sebastian. ‘You called.’

Somewhere beneath the covers, the boy was stifling his noise. It was quiet.

‘Sir.’ Sebastian crossed to the bedside, but he did not put down the candle; only held it higher, and in the wavering light the mound of blankets was very still.

‘Go away.’ Miserably.

‘Sir. You called, I think.’

‘I don’t want anything.’

‘You did call, though.’

‘I didn’t mean to.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. They were getting nowhere. ‘You called for help, sir.’

‘Can you?’

‘Sir?’

The blankets squirmed and the demon saw the small face in the darkness, tucked deep in the tumbled blankets. A flash of pale forehead, wet nose. 

‘Can you help?’

‘My lord.’ Sebastian could see the dark glint of one eye now, peering out. There was something different about his master’s tone: frail, distant. It was enough to rouse him hungrily, a heat down his back. The earl was not projecting his voice properly; he was not setting out his crisp little words like a row of dominoes, poised for collapse. He sounded like a child, only a child. The demon chewed at the inside of his cheek. ‘You must explain, sir. Was it a dream?’

‘No,’ said the muffled voice. ‘I didn’t dream it.’

There was no reply for that. 

And Sebastian considered again the horror of mortal’s sleeping; nightly, inevitable, and the memories that gripped their open minds. A nightmare cannot be exorcised from human flesh. From any living mind. Even a demon can tell you that.

Sebastian rarely slept, himself. There was a reason for it.

He felt his way through the last few years for his master’s list of comforts. The boy was clean and warm already; the fire was still bright. Well, then.

‘Shall I bring you some warm milk?’

Silence. ‘Milk.’ And a ragged sound. ‘Is that your solution for everything? Warm bloody milk?’ 

‘Yes, my lord.’ The demon watched the wide eye, unblinking. ‘That seems to be about the limit of it, sir.’ He didn’t disguise the stir of impatience. Of anger.

‘That’s it, then.’ The words were quick. Jabbed between sobs. ‘That’s all you’ve _got_.’

Sebastian felt the slip and shiver of his own skin. ‘It is, sir.’ He paused, considering. ‘Unless you desire something more…specific.’

‘No.’ Scornful.

‘But there is something you desire. Is there not?’ There must be if he cried so loudly. Hunger or pain, they cry for. The desire for fullness or the need for release.

‘No.’ It was small, unspeakably bitter. ‘You wouldn’t understand.’ 

The demon’s bones were stiff as ice. Loss, his master meant. The demon was almost tempted to answer. To ask the mewling little thing: _do you know what I am?_

_What I was?_

_What I will never be again?_

He was almost tempted to speak. But that would be an explanation; and an explanation would mean that he wanted to be understood. _You wouldn’t understand._ He was not the child. He was nothing like the child.

He said nothing.

There was a wet sound from the earl’s bed. ‘You couldn’t, could you.’ And there was a new note in the petulant thin voice. The demon could see both eyes now, peering. ‘ _Can_ you?’ A demand. As though too much weighed on the answer. As though the earl knew his servant couldn’t lie. 

The demon put his teeth together. ‘My lord,’ he said, and he let the coolness of his voice close over the words before he held them out. ‘It is less a matter of whether I understand a mortal’s feelings, sir, and more a matter of whether I am being paid enough to care about them at half-past two in the morning.’

It was quiet. Then a low noise, almost a growl, a small creature spitting through its fangs. 

Sebastian wasn’t finished with him yet. He sweetened his voice. ‘I am, however, quite happy to bring you some milk if you desire it.’

The eyes looked back at him. And disappeared again, and the blankets folded tighter.

‘Just go.’

‘With honey, perhaps. Isn’t that precisely what you need, sir?’

‘Go away, go _away_.’ Wetly, a gurgling sob. ‘I don’t want you.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Bright with anger. Sebastian turned back to the bedroom door. He heard the whisper though, beneath the blankets. 

‘I don’t _want_ you.’ And the sob. ‘I don’t want _you_.’

His master was crying for something else, something other. For the cold pillow next to him and his solitary heartbeat in the silent room. 

Sebastian closed the door behind him and went back up the bare steps to his service quarters. His feet made no echo on the wooden staircase; he was listening. He could still hear it. Long and wailing. His feet made no echo, and the demon knew he was only one of many ghosts in the Phantomhive house.

His master was angry. But the child should have been grateful. To treat a demon thus, to call Sebastian to his bedside and dismiss him-- he should have been grateful to get only a handful of words, instead of claws in his back and Sebastian’s cock pushed deep into his wet mouth.

The demon shuddered. His back ached with the need of it. He ought to have fucked the boy while he had the chance. In the coach. Or last night, or any moment he had seen the helpless softening of that cold blue gaze. He should not have trusted in the wavering of his master’s determination. Or the strength of his own patience, either. _Patience._

The boy was desperate for his touch. It was in every line of his small body. It was the patterns of his unsteady breath, the tightening of his lips when Sebastian bent too near him. Which was always. Every time. And why not? Mortals hated it when he moved too close to them, and it was much too delightful to resist.

And the earl was more sensitive to it than anyone else. A look was enough to bring the blush of awareness to those cheeks. A touch at his shoulder was enough to make him flinch. Sebastian had almost purred to see the delicate swelling of his tiny cock, anguished and tremulous when he’d kissed the boy’s bare thigh. 

And it had not been enough.

The demon hissed on the empty staircase. He had misjudged his master. He had provoked a clear order. He could not allow this. He was tired of patience and the bitterness burned in his nostrils, sulphuric. 

It sung in his ears, but he could still hear his master’s sobbing when he closed his bedroom door. When he knelt down on the wooden floor of his bare garret bedroom, and pried the sleeping cat from under the shadow of the bed he would never sleep in.

It did not want to be stirred. It scratched him. He pulled it onto his lap. And held its soft head firm against his knee and unhooked the claws from his wrist, one by one.

Inconsolable, the child crying in the night, and Sebastian wondered as he watched the dark scratch swelling on his skin. As he watched the cat lick at his bared wrist.

He wondered how far he would have to walk away from this place, this nest of mortal sin, before the boy’s weeping was only an echo in his blood.


	10. iuxta {near}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to my dear [Lush](https://lushslug.tumblr.com/) for the beta/ vibe check!
> 
> I hope you enjoy this chapter. Stay safe, my dears-

When Sebastian brought up his master’s breakfast at 8 o’clock, the room was quiet. Not even a scuffle from the big shadowy bed, and the demon looked keenly at the small heap under the blankets. 

The boy was still asleep. His dark lashes rested against the morning flush of his cheeks. His chin was tucked deep under the covers.

Quite soft in sleep, the contrary little thing. 

Sebastian paused at the bedside, listening. His master’s breaths were deep. Steady. Unfeigned; and it was, the demon mused, the most vulnerable state in which he had seen the child for many weeks. Since his illness at the Circus, actually, and his fever. Not even in his flush of opium had his limbs been so loose, so unguarded. 

The fresh lips were just parted, slightly dry. 

It was almost cause for regret. If his master could be more like _this_. He looked so very quiet. 

If one were to turn back the covers. Reach out a hand. But the earl slept lightly. Always. Even a touch would stir him.

Sebastian stepped closer. 

He did not touch. He leaned his hand against the headboard and bent low, and he could smell. The lavender scent that lingered in his master’s hair. Warm skin, and the child’s breath, sleep-soured. 

But there is always an illusion. The boy was lost in sleep, one slim arm tucked beneath his pillow. His sleeve pushed down, his sharp bare elbow delicate as a cat’s. But his little fingers were curled around a pistol.

Sebastian turned away.

‘It is time to wake up, young master.’ The demon opened the curtains. And turned to watch.

The watery spring daylight fell over the bed, the pointed pale face. The boy’s lashes shifted and the fine brows gathered into a frown. A sigh. The boy woke. He opened his strange clear eyes.

Sebastian felt it even more clearly than he saw it, the stiffening of the young body beneath the covers. The wary tension in the boy’s face, his neck. 

And the Earl of Phantomhive sat up.

‘Your tea this morning is a Fuzhou jasmine blend, sir.’

No answer. 

It was going to be one of those mornings, was it? 

Sebastian removed the covers from the porcelain dishes. Calmly, smoothly. ‘I trust that your sleep was not disturbed any further during the course of the evening, young master.’

‘No.’

The earl had been sobbing until a quarter to four. His eyes were still shadowed purple. His little face looked like antique porcelain; fragile, hard. Sebastian’s fingers twitched around the tea-pot handle. His master was a different creature entirely from the melting child he’d held in his lap yesterday.

‘Your sleeplessness is becoming something of a liability, sir. It is no good for a business mind.’

‘It’s fine.’ The earl was smoothing his covers neatly over his lap, and did not glance over.

‘Perhaps we ought to acquire some laudanum for you, my lord.’

And now the boy was sitting straight up in his bed. ‘Laudanum.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. He dug his knife into the ivory glut of butter in the china dish. ‘You have insomnia. And that is the common prescription for such things, I believe.’ 

‘A bit of missed sleep never hurt anybody.’ So defiant, this weary small thing, pale against his pillows. So determined to cover his weaknesses.

‘It is not optimal for your health, sir.’

‘Hmph,’ said the little lord, rudely. ‘What do you care?’ But he shot a glance, uneasily. He did not like displays of concern in his servant.

Sebastian was spreading butter, watching the creamy edges of it liquefy against the crunch of toast. ‘Your survival is my greatest priority, sir.’ To a point. To the only point of any importance. It was not a lie.

‘I don’t want laudanum.’

‘It might be quite effective, my lord. After all, we have already ascertained the effect of opiate derivatives upon your nervous system, sir.’

A pause. ‘I don’t want laudanum.’ 

Icy, this time, and his master’s snap of fury sat nicely in Sebastian’s spine. He dipped his spoon into the sticky plunge of the honey. ‘I am sure we could find an appropriate dosage, sir.’ 

_Fourteen drops of laudanum for a ten year old. Thirty for an adult._ Perhaps twenty would do it. Enough to keep the earl still and quiet at night, enough to calm the uneasy flare of his mind. A lovely thought.

‘I don’t want laudanum.’ 

A lovely thought. Sebastian glanced sideways at his master. The sharpness of the boy’s cold voice would be muted by heavy opium. That watchfulness blurred. That small body limp and hot, unresisting against the tumbled bed-sheets. Barely whimpering if Sebastian were to raise the damp nightgown and run his hands down the flutter of the narrow chest, the fine-boned hips. The rosy tumble of his little cock. Barely opening his heavy lids at Sebastian’s nails across his skin. The pinch of teeth closing over his tender nipple. The push of a tongue between his drooling lips.

How simple, then. To learn the curves of his neck, his thighs, and the weight of his heavy head. The flavour of his sweat. To defile his mouth, spoil his tangled hair with a hot smear of spillage. Quiet, the parting of his slim legs, and the slow delight of spreading him. Tasting him. The boy would be pliant, yielding. Soft under the press of a finger, and the stretch of it deep inside him. Two fingers. Night after night, in the hush, the sweetness of his sleepy flesh.

‘Is that so, sir?’

‘Laudanum is bitter.’

 _Twenty-two drops._ How simple, then, to break in the tender body to a rougher touch, a fiercer handling, and work him open. Three fingers. Night after night.

‘It would not be difficult to disguise the flavour within your warm milk and honey, my lord.’

And if the child were submerged deep enough, heavy enough, shallow-breathed under Sebastian’s weight, he wouldn’t flinch when the night came, when Sebastian sank his cock deep within the softened kiss of his hole.

 _Twenty-five drops._ The boy would be silent for hours.

How beautiful.

It would not be the same, of course, the small face blank and closed; not as satisfying as watching the boy’s wide eyes. Watching the need, the horror, the shudder of his penetration. But it would be another sort of pleasure; less sharp, but still delicious, toying with his master’s body.

If Sebastian was careful about it, the boy might almost be made to believe it was for his own good. _My lord does not like to be touched._ Would it not be kinder to take him thus, half-sleeping, his mind freed? If his master was weak with lust, but sickened by his own desires? Likely. Yes. 

Which was reason enough to never do it.

‘Sebastian,’ the earl said sharply. 

And the demon looked down at the plate of toast, and the golden drip of honey just beginning to unspool itself. 

‘My newspaper,’ said the earl, and Sebastian bowed his head. He handed it over. The boy’s warm fingers touched him and it shivered through the demon’s blood.

Sebastian frowned. 

This. 

This was becoming a distraction.

But the earl wanted his breakfast. He wanted a butler, quick and polite, and that was what he would receive.

‘The Reverend Mr Rathbone has extended a personal invitation to you, my lord, to attend this morning’s Sunday service. The chancel window has been restored, and they would be honoured by your appearance.’

‘No,’ said the earl, unfolding his newspaper with a sharp flap. ‘Christmas. Easter. Marriages and deaths. The Reverend knows better than to expect me otherwise.’

The Earl was a thoughtful enough master of his estate; the roads were well-kept. The church roof was in good repair. Devotion, though, was markedly lacking in the young nobleman’s behaviour. 

The boy had denounced God, once. He did not believe in such a being. 

The demon found it deeply amusing, although he disagreed in silence. Of course there is such a thing as God. There must be, or what is the point of sinning? One can deny all one pleases, but one cannot wish the sun out of existence, either.

Denial will get you precisely nowhere.

But the demon would let the boy believe there was no God, if that was what his master wanted.

‘Sebastian.’

The demon turned. It was not his name, any more than Ciel Phantomhive was his master's name, but it always sat curiously in the boy’s mouth. It always meant something.

‘Yes, my little lord.’ He bowed. ‘Command me.’ And for a moment Sebastian saw it, the unsteadiness. The wideness in those eyes. 

‘My tea.’ 

‘I hope it is not too hot for you, sir. I shall fetch a--’

‘No,’ said the earl. ‘It’s vile. I want Assam.’

‘I see.’ The earl was almost certainly lying; he had quite enjoyed the tea last time. And Sebastian was confident that he had brewed this pot quite perfectly. ‘I shall fetch you some Assam, my lord.’

And he did so. It was his job. 

Down the quiet stairs, and Sebastian heated the copper kettle again. Ignored the cheery hoot from Bard over his second plate of bacon. And back up to the bedroom with the fresh tea-pot and cup, and the demon poured for his master in silence.

The earl had finished his toast during the interval. And licked out the glass dish of honey, by the looks of his sticky chin. Sebastian made no mention of it.

And the earl sipped at his Assam, and frowned. ‘Too strong,’ he said. ‘You are quite hopeless. Fetch some milk.’

And Sebastian went. 

It was going to be one of _those_ days.

The demon dressed his master very properly, after the earl finished a leisurely breakfast; he kept his eyes fixed where they ought to be, on the gathering of the wool lisle stocking. On the slow enveloping of the mother-of-pearl button by the hand-worked buttonhole. On the level hem of an indigo-blue waistcoat, the neat angle of a starched white collar. 

He did not look at flesh or flush or sweet skin, didn’t breathe in his master’s little gasp at the touch of gloved fingers against his neck. The boy wanted efficiency, this morning. 

His servant would oblige.

***********

Sebastian was taking it rather well, considering.

Ciel pondered over his book in the library. 

The butler was rather more silent today than usual, of course; but he hadn’t given his servant much time to talk, either, between ordering him to clean all the windows down the hallways, and sending him to oversee the waxing of the ballroom floor with Mey-rin.

It was no more than Sebastian deserved. The butler was entirely too cocky about his own capacity, and ought to expect that his master would test him occasionally.

Ciel sighed, almost content, and returned to his book. Not even a book; it was the magazine again. The Strand, and he was re-reading _A Study in Scarlet_. Research, really, but it was nice to think about something else. It was a Sunday. It ought to feel like one.

He rang for his tea at ten, and watched Sebastian pour it. The butler had brought him Earl Grey. Ciel watched the pale face set carefully, the polite thin smile on Sebastian’s mouth. The white-gloved fingers moving over the pot and saucer and spoon, the ceremony of it, and he heard the little splash of the sugar lump. 

Ciel sighed. He was old enough to put his own sugar in, surely.

And he sniffed at the tea-cup his butler set down beside him, and he sighed again. ‘No,’ he said. ‘This won’t do. Keemun.’

The butler’s eyes narrowed a fraction, a faint drawing together of those fine dark brows. Ciel watched him, looking for the heat in Sebastian’s topaz-clear eyes. But the butler said nothing, only bowed.

And Ciel sat back in his seat as Sebastian went back downstairs to fetch it. He could do this all day. And there was no reason not to, really; he’d had about enough of the devil’s insolence.

Last night. _The question is whether I am being paid enough to care at half past two in the morning._ Did Sebastian dare suggest it was not enough? This payment? His soul? It was enough. It was more than enough, for dusting the mantelpieces and a spot of baking. 

Not that Ciel was even getting the benefit of that at the moment. There was no cake today, of course. Only a light sponge biscuit, the sort they give to invalids and teething babies; dry, hardly sweetened. Barely worthy of the name _biscuit_ at all, and Ciel frowned at it when the butler returned.

‘I hope you don’t expect me to eat this filth.’

Sebastian’s reply was brisk. ‘We shall reinstate your usual supply of sweets once your cold has disappeared, young master.’

Ciel frowned. ‘I don’t have a cold.’ Nor did he.

‘You have been sniffling continuously for the past two hours, sir.’

‘Don’t be stupid.’ But no, he had. And Sebastian turned to him now, and leaned down, and had him by the chin already. And was wiping his nose with a linen handkerchief like he was a baby, and Ciel pulled away. Blinked.

‘I don’t have a cold,’ he said sharply. ‘The room isn’t warm enough, that’s all.’

‘It is 66.4 degrees Fahrenheit where you are seated, my lord.’ Sebastian was back at the side-table. ‘Perhaps you simply need to move your chair closer to the fire.’

Ciel re-opened his magazine. ‘Perhaps I need to wear long trousers.’ 

‘Perhaps we should speak to Miss Hopkins about it when she arrives with your Easter wardrobe, sir.’

Ciel looked up. The butler was packing up the tea-tray, spoon and saucer and milk-jug aligned. Quite calmly, and his low voice had held no sarcasm.

‘Yes,’ Ciel said. ‘Perhaps we should.’

And the butler bowed again, in silence again, and Ciel watched him leave with the tea things. Dark as a shadow against the wall, the demon’s black livery, and the unhurried silence of his steps. Sebastian wore his uniform like skin. Too easily. He wore this role too easily.

And Ciel sipped from the hot rim of his porcelain cup. The Keemun was good. Of course it would be.

This wasn’t working at all. The butler was not reacting. Had he grown tired of playing, or was his patience simply a deeper and more unshakeable thing than Ciel had imagined?

And Ciel wondered, then, when he had last done a thing because he wanted to, and not for any hope of the butler’s reaction. Not this week. Or the last.

Ciel sipped again. He didn’t like the taste of that, not at all.

*************

The bell rang again before lunch. Sebastian was expecting it. He wiped his gloved hands on the linen dishcloth, and took off his apron, and Bard leaned around the doorway from the store kitchen.

‘Mey-rin’s finished with the laundry if you want to send her up.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. ‘I shall go.’

Bard looked at the half-chopped chicken livers on the counter. ‘But you’re right in the middle of--’

‘It doesn’t matter,’ said Sebastian. ‘He is calling for me.’

It was a broken window, this time. 

The demon didn’t know quite how his master had managed it; the panes were high up in the hallway, and a chair could not be pulled close enough to reach it. Unless the boy had stood far back and thrown something-- and ah, there it was, down in the wet garden bed below, a little marble paperweight. The aim he would have needed for that was rather impressive. A good eye, admittedly, though the earl hadn’t the slightest coordination in his feet.

Sebastian watched his master’s arrogant little figure mincing away down the hall, his little chin held up as if he was king of half the world. And then the demon mended the window, with steady hands, and the glow of his irritation held deep and quiet.

If the brat wanted a display from him, he would have to try a little harder. 

Lunch was a longer affair than usual after the earl decided that the crust of his leek and cheese pie was undercooked, and sent it back for another fifteen minutes’ baking.

And when the bell rang again from the library at half-past five, even Bard looked over from the stove with a frown.

‘The young master’s in a mood today, isn’t he?’

Sebastian put down his knife. ‘Quite,’ he said. 

This time it was a question.

‘What is on the menu for dinner this evening?’

Sebastian looked at the earl’s sour small mouth. ‘Sauteed chicken liver, sir, in a butter and brandy sauce.’ 

‘Hmph.’ The earl steepled his fingers on his crossed knee. ‘I want beef.’

‘I am afraid we have not prepared beef, my lord.’

‘Is there cake for dessert?’

Sebastian breathed cautiously. ‘I believe we have already discussed the matter of--’

‘If there isn’t going to be cake,’ said the boy, ‘then you will make me beef.’ His single visible eye was sharper than any child’s should be.

Sebastian hesitated. It was a concession, but the boy had not earned his sweets. ‘Very well, sir,’ he said. ‘Beef it is.’

He was not pleased about it, though. 

Neither was Bard, muttering over the saucepan as they set aside the dish of livers and began to slice a fillet of beef instead. But Sebastian did not let it show on his face, or in his voice, and he heard Finny’s whisper to Mey-rin in the corridor. 

‘Lucky Mister Sebastian isn’t angry--’

And the demon almost smiled. _Lucky._ Nothing can be hidden forever, and anger will show itself eventually, slow or quick or unexpected. It only needed patience, this time, and his master would learn it.

Sebastian took care with the gravy, though he was certain already that the earl would not even taste it. And then it was dinner time, and Sebastian straightened his back before he entered the dining room.

The earl knocked over his glass of milk before he’d even begun eating. And then _again_ , deliberately, a bump with the back of his hand just as Sebastian had finished changing the snowy linen cloth.

And the earl dropped his fork, and then his napkin, and Sebastian brought him fresh ones. In silence, and the boy didn’t speak; and Mey-rin watched anxiously from the sideboard where Sebastian had stationed her. And he’d been correct; his master pushed away the plate and asked for buttered bread instead of beef, and Sebastian nodded over at the maid, and she scurried away to fetch it.

And the earl was watching Sebastian closely, his little face pinched with anger, now. He was waiting for something.

And the demon was going to give him nothing.

By the time his master had been bathed-- sullenly, coldly pushing Sebastian’s washcloth away from his neck-- the demon’s temper was worn thinner than it had been for quite some time. He dressed the earl’s shivering small body without looking at it, as though he couldn't smell the blood and need and fury beneath the pebbled pale skin, as though it wasn’t as near as the heat in the base of his own neck, the shudder of his cock. 

Of course he was angry.

But the child was angrier, and Sebastian could endure this as long as his master could not.

He didn’t even slam the door when he left the earl’s bedroom and went back downstairs to begin cleaning up the kitchen.

************

He was walking, and it was miles and miles, the long hallways of his father’s house. 

And Ciel looked in every mirror and still couldn’t find him anywhere.

There were only faces he didn’t know, painted eyes and laughing mouths and some of them had fangs. One had a top hat. 

He turned away from the mirror, angry, but his feet were caught fast and somebody was holding them, fat clinging fingers at his ankles. Ciel stared down in horror at the creature sprawled on its belly in front of him, grasping his feet, begging, slavering; half-bandaged face and empty glass eyes. Not man, not animal. Porcelain skin showing hairline fractures. 

_Please, won’t you?_ A high thin voice like a wind-up toy, a broken doll. _It’s still inside. If you could only help me. Please, won’t you cut it out of me? It hurts._

And he tried to run, to pull away, but the clinging fingers seemed to sink into his skin. Rippling under it like worms, like creeping slime, and he saw it on him, in him, thick and black and it held him tight like winding tendrils. Like poisonous smoke.

Rooted to the ground like Klytia, pinned helpless, and when he turned his eyes to the midnight ceiling something moved across the vault like a distant star, a falling trail of molten gold and he wanted to weep. 

But he felt it. Impossible. Relief. The grip on the back of his nightgown, tearing him away, straining against the tug of the creeping smoke. He felt it butt against the back of legs, warm and soft and living, warm fierce friendly dog and it was trying, it was doing its best. He was pulled between them, animal and shadow, and the taste of hope was strange and sudden in his throat. 

But it couldn’t be. The dog was dead. Torn through the guts like everyone else. This couldn’t be real. And if the dog was dead, who held him?

The creeping tendril grip was tight around his knees. Rising, black. Higher to his waist, his ribs, and he gasped for air. Between his legs. Softly under his clothes. Soft as fingers.

Behind him the dog growled. Not a growl. Not a dog. 

_Please_ , he whispered, but he knew already there was nobody left alive to hear him. 

The mounting slime already lapped at his gasping throat and he strained against it. And then he saw it, the last mirror in the dim hallway, and he was there, his precious eyes and dear face. _Ciel._ But if Ciel was there, then who was here, who was _this_? Standing barefoot in the dark. 

He clenched his eyes closed, crying, praying. And when he opened them again he saw nothing in the mirror but a writhe of shadow and its vast empty eyes, one blue and one unearthly, vivid, marked with something that wasn’t his.

Was there anything of him left which was even _him_? And what was he? Not here. Not alive. A ghost of a ghost. The house was empty. 

The blackness slipped like a shiver of velvet between his lips and over his tongue. Behind him the dog was laughing.

*************

His jaw ached. He’d been clenching his teeth.

And bitten his tongue, too, and Ciel swallowed bitterly at the swelling. Only a dream. 

A dream shouldn’t leave him feeling like he’d just been dragged from deep water, still shivering. His sheets felt damp beneath his back. His head hummed strange and dizzy as though he was somehow on a boat, and the wind outside was howling. 

The dark drapes of his bed felt too heavy, suspended overhead. He could reach out his arms on either side and never find the edge of the bed. The feather mattress was dense, deep, and he was sinking into it. His hands shook.

And before Ciel even realised what he was doing he’d rolled over and out and dragged the blanket after him and was stumbling over the crinkle of wool carpet towards the bright fireplace. 

He plumped down in front of the hearth, and it was warmer here, but not warm enough, never warm enough, and he pulled the blanket close around him. And higher. And down over his head until the fireglow was only an edge of light, like a crack of flame showing through the night-sky. He didn’t want to look at it. But he didn’t want the darkness either. The patterns on the carpet looked all wrong.

Ciel closed his eyes. He was awake. He was, wasn’t he? He wasn’t dreaming. He couldn’t be, his tongue still stung him. It wasn’t dark enough. It crackled hot. It hurt his ribs and he had to curl his hands up tight. His knees were pulled up to his chest. It was too dark. He felt sick.

And it was fine, he could do this, he’d done it before. Count backwards. All the way from _ten._

His mother had told him this, in thunderstorms. But he did not want to think of that. Of her.

_Nine._

_Eight._

He’d counted like this when he’d panicked, running on the stairs, and the breath seemed gone from his lungs.

_Seven._

_Six._

And every time the haze hummed at the edges of his vision. 

_Five._

_Four._

Every time he woke and had to find himself again, lost somewhere in the dark.

_Three._

_Two._

And he was here. And he could breathe.

_One._

And it was quiet. He could only hear his heart; and the pleasant crack of coal in the hearth. And a squeak like a mouse beside him. The crack of firelight blinked out. 

Ciel raised the blanket-edge. 

And heard another squeak, polished patent leather from the flex of Sebastian’s oxford shoes as the butler crouched.

‘Sir.’ Sebastian sighed. ‘What are you doing?’

Ciel pulled the blanket down again.

‘I didn’t call for you,’ he said, and his breathing sounded noisy in the hot dim beneath his blanket.

‘You must go back to bed, my lord. I cannot allow my master to sleep on the floor.’

‘I wasn’t sleeping here.’

‘Well,’ said Sebastian’s voice just above him. ‘It is immaterial whether you were asleep or not, sir. If you are going to be awake, it is preferable that you are awake in your bed.’

‘That’s stupid,’ said Ciel. Between the blanket’s edges he could see the crack of light moving; Sebastian was moving. Not much. They were both still. ‘There’s no point being in bed if I can’t sleep.’

‘It is almost three in the morning, my lord. There is nowhere else you ought to be.’ And Sebastian was pulling the blanket from his head, slowly, and Ciel clung to it. And then let it slip back onto his shoulders. And sat up. He knelt there, hot and uncomfortable, and looked at the fire. And Sebastian was kneeling beside him, impassive. Waiting. For what, Ciel didn’t know, but he wasn’t going back to his bed no matter what the butler said. It was foolish. He knew it. But if he went back too soon the dream might still be there, somewhere, slime between his cold sheets. The fire was clean and hot and dry.

And Ciel almost said all this to the butler, who was waiting, but he knew better than to try. To give anything away. 

‘My lord.’ Quietly.

‘I’m not going.’

‘You will catch your death of cold, sir.’

‘It’s warmer here.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian tilted his head, birdlike. His pale face was rather lovely. Quite calm. ‘You couldn’t sleep.’ 

And even though it was only the butler’s aesthetic, Sebastian’s careful manners in avoiding a direct question, there was something in the way he delivered these small statements. Unhurried. Unsurprised. As though he knew already, and was only waiting for Ciel to finish.

‘I was asleep.’ Ciel tried not to sound as though he was sulking, but he bit down on the hem of the blanket at his chin.

‘And you woke up, sir.’

‘Well, obviously.’ Ciel spat out the wet blanket-edge. He looked resolutely at the fireplace.

‘You had another dream. Is this correct?’

And Ciel found himself pulled by the arms, out from under the blanket and up onto Sebastian’s lap. He tensed. Shivering. And Sebastian was settling him astride it. Ciel couldn’t look up. He curled his hands in damp fists in his lap. His legs felt bare and strange, spread over the demon’s thighs, and Ciel was suddenly very hot.

‘I have a lot of dreams,’ he said harshly. He turned his face away from the fire, but his cheeks still burned. He felt small and foolish here, eye-level with his servant’s silver badge.

The demon didn’t intend to comfort him, surely. It had no need to soothe him. 

But it was only laying a gloved hand over his forehead. Against his cheek. And removing the hand again. And the demon sighed.

‘You have no fever at least, my lord.’ Sebastian’s low voice was far away, somehow, as though it drifted from another room. ‘Though you are quite heated. It really is a most infuriating habit of the mortal body to be so clearly in need of sleep, and so adamant in refusing it.’

‘I’m not refusing it,’ said Ciel. He tried to sit very still. The demon’s lap was warm and solid under him. ‘I would sleep if I could.’

‘No doubt,’ said Sebastian. ‘Some things are beyond mortal control, young master. I shall fetch you some chamomile tea if you wish.’

‘No,’ said Ciel. He hated the taste of chamomile; it was like dried apple and dust. And he didn’t want to go back to bed just yet.

‘I would offer to bring you warm milk and honey, but I cannot imagine that you would accept it, sir.’ There was a lingering note of sharpness in the butler’s voice, the first Ciel had heard from him today, and Ciel tensed. If it was going to begin now, so late. The demon’s anger.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t want anything.’ But he was looking at the carpet, his head turned away from the fire, away from the demon, trying not to feel the heat of Sebastian’s body against his legs. Trying not to hold his breath, listening to the slow breaths of his servant’s buttoned chest.

‘I see,’ said Sebastian. ‘Nothing at all.’ 

Ciel didn’t reply. He was tired. He couldn’t think of anything to say, nothing that sounded true enough or clever enough. And if he spoke too sharply, the demon would be sharp also, and Ciel wanted one moment. One moment more, sitting here warm, his hands curled up, before he had to go back to bed. And he would have to go. It was inevitable. The sun would rise and he would need to get up again.

When had his life become these inevitable things?

‘I suppose I shall have to put you back to bed,’ said the demon quietly, ‘and leave you alone.’

Sebastian was holding his knee. And shifting him, slowly, and Ciel thought the butler was going to push him off his lap. He glanced up. Put out his hand to steady himself, flat-palmed on the cold of Sebastian’s buttons, but the butler was only re-arranging him. Tucking Ciel’s knee between his own. Deep between the demon’s legs, and Ciel’s throat tightened.

He would sit still. He would pretend he didn’t feel it under the warm wool of the demon’s trousers, thick as his wrist, obscenely hard. Pretend his skin wasn’t humming hotly at the nearness, and the brush of Sebastian’s hair over his forehead. 

He felt damp breath as the demon sighed.

‘Do hold still, sir.’ A murmur, and the demon’s strong hand was at his hip.

Ciel felt the warmth through his nightgown, through Sebastian’s glove. He should go to bed. He hated everything about this. Hated that the demon knew what he wanted, and what he didn’t, and pressed him anyway. 

But Sebastian’s other hand was gentle over his leg. Pushing up the shift of Ciel’s nightgown, high around his hips, and the helpless flinch of his bared cock was laid over his servant’s thigh. 

And there was no earthly reason why it should flood through him, this helpless rush down his neck. 

They were both clothed, after all. Nothing was really happening. The beast’s skin wasn’t even touching his. It seemed impossible that he should feel so naked, so vulnerable, tucked against Sebastian’s body. 

The demon was holding him steady, and moving against him, and Ciel felt as though his skin was on fire. He was held by hip and thigh, his knee pinned hard against the grind of the demon’s stiffened flesh. 

And this was much too close, and Ciel wanted to squirm away. He wanted to die.

He tried to kneel up. 

‘Don’t.’ The demon’s voice was low, soft, and Ciel shivered. Waiting for Sebastian to say something. To make some mockery of his trembling and his humiliation. But the demon was silent, only breathing carefully, his head bent, his lips parted, and Ciel caught the glow between the half-closed eyelashes.

Sebastian wasn’t going to speak. He only wanted this, wanted _him_ , and Ciel was suddenly dizzy. The sound, the sight of it was thunderous through his body, and it wasn’t only disgust that stirred his belly.

And did the demon feel this too? When he dragged a noise from his master’s mouth? If he was fired by _this_ \--

Ciel held tight to Sebastian’s jacket. He bit his noise between his teeth. He was stiffening already, and he was trying to believe it was because of the heat, the movement under him, and not because of the hard ache of Sebastian’s cock, pinned and thrusting against him.

If only he could decide which was better, the creature’s voice tight with fury or loose with desire. If only he could have both _._

His cock was snagging raw on the wool of Sebastian’s thigh and he moved himself, ground closer into it, and he couldn’t help it. Not like this, so warm and near, and the demon’s need seemed to envelop him and become his own.

And the demon’s gloved hand slid from his hip, pushed under his nightgown, and was hot on the small of his back. Up his spine, and trailing down, and Ciel was shaking. He didn’t dare turn his face, or raise it, or open his eyes. 

His grip twined in the butler’s jacket. His blood seemed too slow, too fast, quicksilver. The demon’s fingertips were digging deep enough to hurt and Ciel clenched his knees together. And Sebastian made a sound, deep and soft in his chest and Ciel couldn’t breathe. 

He arched his back. Tilted his hips, and closer, pushing into the heat of the demon’s leg, his hip, as though he were riding it, and he was too close. It was too much. He held tighter. Flung his arm around Sebastian’s neck, and the demon bent low for him. His cheek was cool and close.

‘Hush,’ said Sebastian. The merest whisper. ‘Hush, small thing.’

Ciel buried his flushed face into the demon’s sleeve. It burned. Everything burned. It shook through his chest, his hands, and he cried out, and Sebastian’s breath was close at his neck. Liquid, and the demon’s tongue was hot and sudden at his earlobe, and there wasn’t a part of him left that wasn’t aching. Melting, shaken to pieces. And when he came it was wet across his thigh, across his servant’s uniform, and he almost fell forward. 

He didn’t want to lean against the demon’s chest. 

But he trembled, and Sebastian’s hands were firm on his body, sliding to cup his rump, grinding him closer, and Ciel closed his eyes. He let himself be held. Let himself be rocked, warm against the demon’s body, while Sebastian settled him where he wanted him, there, there, and thrust against Ciel’s leg. The slow shift of the demon’s hips, his captive cock, relentless, and Sebastian’s breaths were stirring in Ciel’s hair, deep and hot and breaking at last into a gasp. Hungrily. And again. Ciel let himself be held, soft as a doll. 

He felt the demon’s fingers clench his thighs, spasming. Hard in his flesh. And Sebastian held him still. 

And then the demon sighed, a shudder, and they were both quiet. 

The grip on Ciel’s legs loosened. 

And Ciel’s neck was ablaze, and his cheeks. He knew Sebastian had finished. Had spent, as he did, and Ciel felt it damp through the wool. His knee trembled against it. The demon had never wanted anything from him before. Never taken it. Too close to something else, this thing tonight, and Ciel’s head seemed to throb.

Sebastian cleared his throat.

Ciel didn’t move. 

He kept his eyes closed as Sebastian shifted slowly, wrapping an arm behind him and holding him close as he rose to his feet. And Ciel felt his own heart, racing, still unsteady against his servant’s waistcoat.

He wanted to say something.

He couldn’t let Sebastian carry him back to his bed like this, as though it were all quite simple. Though it had been simple. Oh, perfectly so, just his body against this terrible heat, their bodies together. 

But if he said nothing, Sebastian would think he’d wanted this. 

‘I never called,’ Ciel said, and it was only a whisper. ‘I didn’t want you.’

The demon’s face in the dim firelight was strange and flat. Like something painted, an ancient fresco, neither beast nor man. ‘No,’ it said. ‘I don’t suppose you did.’ 

And Sebastian leaned down, and lowered him back onto his bed. 

Ciel turned his back on the butler as he pulled up the linen sheet and lay down. And there was a soft crumple of sound and he felt Sebastian settle the blanket back over him, over the bed.

‘You will sleep now, sir.’ 

And whether that was or a prediction or a threat, Ciel couldn’t guess. ‘Mhm,’ he said. His shoulder was tense against the pillow.

‘Your day tomorrow will be a busy one, after all,’ said Sebastian. ‘Monday.’ As smooth and quiet as if his uniform wasn’t still damp with the proof of Ciel’s lust. Of his own.

And Ciel chewed at his lip. He had to say something. 

‘Cake,’ he said. ‘Tomorrow you’re going to give me cake.’

Sebastian was picking up the candelabra behind him, and the shadows shifted. ‘Perhaps I shall allow you some plum cake with your tea.’ The demon’s voice was soft. ‘I do believe you earned it very nicely, sir.’

The clock struck as the butler closed the door, three o’clock, a golden clank of chimes from the hallway outside. 

The sound dripped through Ciel’s head. He had known the beast was toying with him. The demon was playing with him, always playing. And it pulsed through him, strangely, something he could almost believe was relief. And the shiver in his body was anger at the creature’s insolence, of course, but it was still not as terrible as his understanding: he needed the beast to keep its own balance. He needed to know one of them was still playing by a set of rules, however savage. 

He would sleep. The butler had said he would sleep, and he would. Now or later. At some point; inevitable.

When had his life become these inevitable things?

Ciel knew, though. It was ever since he had decided upon his road. He had turned his eyes from it for a moment too long, and realised that the thorns were wrapped tightly around his feet. In his flesh. 

If he did not take the thorns, though, he must choose the flowers. 

And they were sweet and soft and stung him more than any knife, and he had already made his choice.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sebastian's little fantasy in the opening scene was inspired by [this headcanon](https://twitter.com/heyitszubie/status/1254800577986359296) of Zu's on Twitter.
> 
> Until next time, dear things, behave and eat your carrots--  
> xx


	11. per {through}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has been so lovely about the longer time between updates!  
> And apologies for being a little late with this one.  
> But if its any consolation, I think you're going to enjoy it...  
> xx

Ciel was silent the next morning.

He hadn’t meant to be. He’d been quite composed as he lay in bed listening to the rattle of Sebastian’s tray beside the bed. Chewing on his thumbnail, because the edge had been catching on his linen sheet, and because Sebastian hated it when Ciel chewed his nails ragged.

But then the butler had swept the heavy curtains apart, as quiet as ever, and cast a long glance back at Ciel from the window. One of those unspeakable looks that seemed to pin him, contain him, question and explain him all at once.

Ciel rubbed his bare knees together beneath the covers. 

‘Good morning, young master.’ Sebastian’s voice was quiet as he poured the tea.

Quiet; not amused, at least. But something, something else that made Ciel’s stomach hot and tight. He didn’t know. He didn’t like it.

It could almost have been a dream last night-- or this morning, too early and too late, that place in between the two.

He looked back at Sebastian, but there was no trace of remembrance on his fine-boned quiet face. The butler moved in silence, quite self-contained, as though he needed nothing in the world. Utter completion, as though he were the whole world and everything in it. As though he was _something_ , instead of the vilest nothingness. 

Sebastian turned his head towards Ciel. 

Ciel looked away.

And he took the plate of scones without meeting Sebastian’s gaze. And the cut-glass dish of quince conserves, and his tea.

There was no reason he should feel this discomfort. He had chosen to let himself sink into the demon’s arms. Sebastian’s chest had been warm under his cheek. Even through the jacket, the shirt. And would his bare _skin_ \--

There was no reason he should feel like this. 

Not as though he’d lost a game; it was vaguer. Infinitely worse. As though Sebastian had played the wrong chess piece altogether on a game board Ciel hadn’t even seen.

It sat so uneasily in Ciel’s stomach, the revulsion of it. Not betrayal, not exactly. He hadn’t trusted the demon, of course. He’d known what Sebastian was using him for.

The scones were dry in Ciel’s throat. He should never have let himself enjoy it.

But why not? He’d decided already that he would make the servant his. Sebastian belonged to him; that’s why he’d ordered the dog-collar. He’d set aside shame, and he was prepared to bear the mockery in Sebastian’s voice. 

But the demon had been surprisingly quiet, actually. Beside the fireplace. He’d had the opportunity to be quite cutting, if he’d wanted to; but he hadn’t. 

Ciel was restless on the edge of the bed. He was thinking too much, of course. But he couldn’t forget. 

He didn’t speak as Sebastian dressed him. 

And then, and then when Sebastian spoke.

‘You did not sleep well, my lord.’

Ciel felt the butler’s gloved touch, lightly at his ankle. Pulling up his stockings. 

‘No worse than usual,’ he said. 

The butler glanced up as he buckled the garter. It was an appraising look. ‘Perhaps if you were to retire a little earlier this evening, sir.’

‘I go to sleep early enough as it is.’ Really. As if he were a child.

‘You go to bed,’ said Sebastian. ‘But you do not sleep. One cannot maintain such a lack for very long, sir.’ And when the butler knelt up to the bed to reach for the other stocking, he looked at Ciel. And brushed lightly at Ciel’s chin. Quick fingers, as carelessly, as absently as one might pet an animal.

Ciel felt himself colouring slowly. ‘I shall manage.’

‘It will be quite a busy week, my lord.’

It was seven days until they opened their doors for visitors. For some great houses in the hunting season, the place would be full every weekend. A perpetual bustle and chatter and the stables full of horses. The ballroom glaring with lights. For a house chattering with servants.

For this house, the echoing silence and its grim little team of mercenaries, visitors would be far more challenging than any enemy.

Of course he would be better prepared for it all if he could sleep. But he had no control over a thing like that. Not with the dreams he had, or the nightmare thing he awoke to. _This_ thing, smiling, thoughtful. Handling him as though Ciel were a pet.

Ciel breathed carefully through the brush of Sebastian’s fingers over his calf. The butler was buckling his second garter. And then Sebastian was feeling higher, over the curve of Ciel’s left knee. Warm along his thigh, slowly. Rubbing his thumb deep into Ciel’s skin.

‘Stop that,’ Ciel said.

The demon ignored him.

‘Stop that,’ Ciel said again, but it wavered. He hated himself.

Sebastian looked up at him. ‘Say it again, sir. With conviction,’ he said. Horribly quiet. ‘Or I shall never believe you.’

Ciel wanted to push the demon’s hand off him.

Or lay back, spreading himself for Sebastian’s slow fingers, for his hungry mouth. Curling his hands into the covers as the demon undressed him again and pulled him into pieces.

His shorts felt tight across the arch of his cock.

He couldn’t. Not if Sebastian wanted it. He couldn’t follow his prompting, meek as a child.

Ciel clenched his fists in his lap. ‘Don’t touch me like that.’ 

The butler raised his brows, a slow question. _Or what?_ Daring him, with his insolent face, and the last touch on Ciel’s leg. Almost a squeeze, hot on the plump of his thigh. 

Sebastian sat back again, and reached for his master’s waiting boots. He laced them, briskly professional. He didn’t touch Ciel again before he left.

And Ciel was shakily relieved. _Or what?_ He didn’t have an answer. _Don’t touch me like that, or I’ll scream. I’ll speak your name. I’ll die. Sebastian._

It still quivered under his skin and hot behind his neck, his ears. The noise Sebastian had made when he pulled Ciel close to him and spent with a sigh, pressed to his body.

Ciel wanted to hear it again. He wanted to hear everything, all the demon had. But if this was the price he had to pay. This heat in his belly, this hesitance.

_Don’t touch me like that. Or I might think you mean it._

Sebastian’s lust had been greater than his need to discomfit his master; even if only once, only momentarily. 

The knowledge still lay uneasy in Ciel’s body. 

He wasn’t about to forgive the demon for it.

******************

Sebastian raised his head to listen, seated at the desk in Tanaka’s office.

Finny’s voice was drifting in from the scullery. Clear and sweet as spring.

_‘This is the Key of the Kingdom:_

_In that Kingdom is a city;_

_In that city is a town;_

_In that town there is a street;_

_In that street there winds a lane;_

_In that lane there is a yard--’_

A pause. Mey-rin’s voice prompted quietly. ‘House.’

_‘In that yard there is a house;_

_In that house there waits a room;_

_In that room an empty bed;_

_And on that bed a basket--_

_A basket of sweet flowers--’_

And their voices chimed together, the boy and the young woman as they worked.

_‘Of flowers, of flowers;_

_A basket of sweet flowers.’_

Finny had taken a liking to British folk rhymes, apparently. He and Mey-rin had been through one of the books from the Phantomhive library, finding odd little lines and bits of verse. It was new for Mey-rin, whose knowledge of London advertising jingles and hawker’s sales patter was immense, but for whom a children’s rhyme was dazzlingly fresh.

And Finny, of course, had been quite taken with folk stories since he had finished the book his young master had given him.

_‘Of flowers, of flowers;_

_A basket of sweet flowers.’_

Their voices sounded rather pretty. Uncultured, but they had a certain charm. 

Sebastian put down his pen. Six centuries now since he’d first heard this bit of doggerel in the fields of Britain. Fuck knows what the words meant. But they stuck, somehow.

‘Pies are going in,’ called Bard from the kitchen. ‘Half-past nine, yeah?’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. He double-checked his pocket-watch. 

‘Finny was looking for you. Are you needed upstairs?’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. And he sighed in some contentment.

Half-past nine, and the earl was finishing his Latin revisions upstairs. It was a Monday, and the brat was kept well-occupied.

Bard leaned around the office doorway. ‘At least the young master’s not so sharp today,’ he said, and Sebastian found himself smiling; it was uncomfortable to admit, but he was actually in agreement with the man.

It was a pleasant change. And last night. The weight of the little boy’s body on his lap, sweet and warm and melting. Afraid of his demon’s touch. Trembling with it. Sebastian had gone softly with him.

And the boy had taken it softly. Allowing Sebastian to finish-- slowly, shivering, with the fragrance of the boy’s hair at his cheek-- and the little lord hadn’t raised a finger. Not a word. No orders this time. Not in the cold middle of the night, when all he’d wanted was somebody to hold him.

Sebastian ran his tongue over the tip of one canine, thoughtfully. It had gone quite well for something he hadn’t even planned.

‘And it isn’t even morning tea time.’ Bard grinned. ‘The young master hasn’t even had his cake yet.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. ‘Not yet.’ He stood. Stretched his back, lazily, and pushed the wooden chair back into the desk. ‘But I do believe he deserves it today. With time enough, we might yet make a habit of this.’

And he heard Bard’s murmur in the corridor as he headed for the pantry.

‘--flowers, of flowers. A basket of sweet flowers.’

*****************

Ciel heard the knock, and the study door opening. 

He didn’t need to raise his head to know there was a slice of cake on the butler’s tray. He could smell it.

‘German plum cake, sir.’ The porcelain plate was set down at his elbow. The clink of the cake-fork. ‘With _crème anglaise_ and cinnamon syrup, my lord.’

Still warm; Ciel could see the steam. The top of the plump slice was dark with brown sugar. He was ravenous. But he didn’t pick up the fork. He would show restraint, in front of this creature who could not.

‘I’d have preferred chocolate,’ he said icily. But it was hard to imagine anything smelling better than this.

‘Chocolate, is it.’ Sebastian paused, and his hand curled at his chin. ‘I do have chocolate in the kitchen, but I had intended to use it for the gateaux next week. For your guests, sir.’

‘You can buy more.’ Ciel sat back in his seat. He pulled the tea-cup closer, watching the swirl of liquid against the rim. 

‘I could, my lord. If it were worth the inconvenience.’

But that was plainly baiting, and Ciel ignored it. He picked up the cake-fork, slowly, and he knew the demon was watching him. He kept his eyes fixed on the cake, the painted plate. 

The first bite of cake was perfect. Sumptuously spiced, and sweet with plums and something else. Benedictine? Hazelnut and honey. Perfect. Ciel had expected perfection.

Sebastian’s garnet gaze was too bright, too steady. ‘I trust you are satisfied, sir.’

‘It isn’t too bad.’ Ciel took another bite.

‘I am glad to hear it.’ Sebastian turned back to his tray. ‘You earned it, after all. Most admirably.’

And Ciel couldn’t. Couldn’t eat this, and his throat stung when he swallowed the mouthful. Sweet, and he felt sick. But he’d asked for it. He’d ordered cake, and the butler had delivered it. And if he didn’t eat it, he was only saying that he’d wanted the other thing after all, that he’d been happy for it, Sebastian’s body hot and close.

Ciel put down his fork, and the quiver in his stomach wasn’t quite satisfaction. ‘Chocolate cake for dessert,’ he said. ‘With lots of cream.’ 

‘Is this your request, sir?’ The demon’s mouth was amused. 

Ciel looked at him. ‘I don’t make requests,’ he said. ‘Chocolate. Yes?’

‘It could be arranged, young master.’

‘It has been arranged. I just asked for it.’ Ciel corrected himself. ‘Ordered it.’

‘Indeed, young master.’ Sebastian tucked his hands slowly behind him, his face set into his _teaching_ look, one of his most insufferable. ‘You have stated your desire, sir. I am yet to negotiate mine.’

Ciel felt the trip of his heartbeat. ‘No,’ he said. ‘It doesn’t work like that. I already--’ He stopped. He wasn’t going to say _I already paid_. He didn’t need the demon’s smirk.

But Sebastian was smiling anyhow. ‘Now that we have established your price, sir, we have only to consider the terms. Plum cake is one thing, but if you have your heart set upon chocolate-- well. That will be another matter altogether.’

‘You can take this away.’ Ciel waved his fingers at the plate. ‘I have no intention of negotiating.’ It was hard to speak.

‘Pity,’ said Sebastian. ‘I found your method of payment so agreeable.’

Ciel drew in a sharp breath. And released it. He wasn’t going to discuss this. ‘I can order you to make me chocolate cake,’ he said. ‘It’s very simple.’

‘Indeed. You could, my lord.’ And the butler’s face really ought to have been more humble at such an admission. 

Ciel didn’t like it. ‘ _Shall_ I order you, Sebastian?’ He gave his servant the hardest of his stares, the one that made the Funtom staff shift uncomfortably. The one that made Inspector Abberline’s neck flush dark.

But Sebastian bowed, and his pale smile was unwavering. ‘There is no need for that, sir.’

The butler left quietly. He didn’t take the plum cake with him.

And Ciel pushed the plate away, to the very edge of his desk, and tried to ignore the scent of it. Rich and spiced. Everything he’d wanted.

But he didn’t want it.

****************

They were still at it when Sebastian finished the dusting and returned to the kitchen. He could hear Finny out in the garden, even from here.

_In that street there winds a lane--_

And Finny was breaking off, listening too; ah. Wheels on the gravel outside. Sebastian smiled to himself. It was only the dairy-cart bringing milk and mail from the village, but the gardener was a worthy servant of the Phantomhives.

There were days Sebastian was almost proud of the useless fools.

He was back in the office then, discussing with Tanaka. The hedging by the church lane needed mending. Two farmers had complained. And that, at least, was no concern of a butler’s. Sebastian wasn’t sorry; he had enough else to worry him.

Menus, and the linen store. And then the preparations for lunch.

And the demon was still in the middle of reducing a basket of carrots into a shimmer of julienne when Bard came in and leaned against the bench and wanted to talk about howitzers.

‘Lamb mince,’ said Sebastian. ‘We haven’t much time.’

‘I’m going,’ said Bard, unhurried. ‘It’s only half-past eleven. The fillet’s still on ice.’

‘Lamb mince,’ said Sebastian firmly. ‘You still have a chicken to roast after that.’ The demon paused to wipe his hands. ‘Hurry,’ he said, ‘ _quickly_ now,’ but then the service bell was pealing in the kitchen and he heard the name, the word, insistent in his head- _Sebastian_ \- and he sighed and threw the dishcloth down and went upstairs.

Really. There were days when he was very tired of this.

‘I almost had to ring twice.’ The earl was at his desk, flanked by the twin columns of Latin homework and the week's accounts. 

‘That would not have been required, sir.’ Sebastian bowed. ‘You used my name. I could hear you perfectly well.’

‘Oh.’ The earl sat back. ‘Is that how it works.’ No hint of interest in his tone, but he was watching Sebastian. ‘It isn’t even your real name.’

The demon did not reply. The boy hadn’t asked for tea yet. This wasn’t about tea at all.

The earl was tapping the end of his pencil on his small pointed chin. His single eye was a blue point of brilliance. ‘It’s only a name, after all. The only name you are worthy of in my house.’ 

‘A name that is attached to our contract, my lord,’ said Sebastian. ‘A cord that you attached to me.’

‘I see.’ The earl’s look was sudden, sharp. ‘Does it sit too tightly around your neck?’

Sebastian kept his voice quite level. ‘It was merely an observation, my lord. Never a complaint.’

‘No,’ said the earl. ‘Never a complaint, is it?’ The boy was looking at him strangely. Steadily, with a curious stillness in his small tense body. ‘It appears that I was mistaken.’

Sebastian watched him. And he was curious now. His master rarely admitted to such a thing, and never like this: usually it was cold and quick, a snort over his smug little shoulder. 

‘My lord?’

‘It isn't the only name you’re worthy of.’

‘Ah,’ said Sebastian. He scanned the boy’s face warily. ‘Even a nobleman is capable of a mistake, sir.’ 

But the boy had no shadow of confusion on his delicate little face. ‘Here,’ he said. He tapped at the parcel on the desk beside him, a flat gilt-paper box as big as a biscuit tin. The sort that might hold chocolates, and might hold pencils; and didn’t hold either. Sebastian knew that much. 

This might be dangerous.

‘It’s for you,’ said the boy, and he held it out. Not quite ungraciously, a half-shrug as he extended his hand.

‘Thank you, sir,’ said Sebastian, but he didn’t smile and didn’t bow and he stepped forward and took the box slowly, glancing at his master’s waiting face with a frown he didn’t even attempt to hide. 

This was uncalled-for. A gift from his master. He’d done nothing at all to merit it, which was why the boy was watching him so very keenly. 

‘Go on,’ said the boy. ‘Open it.’

Sebastian was breathing in, trying to catch the scent of whatever was inside: paper and beeswax, resinous sweet wax of some sort, and under it the smell of leather. 

He lifted the lid of the box and paused.

Leather, yes. Clean-edged black leather, well-oiled and neatly trimmed in silver-plate, bright rivets and square buckle and a polished ring dangling at the front. A circlet of wide-cut leather. A dog’s collar, and Sebastian looked back up at his master.

The boy was smiling at him. Actually smiling, his lips turned up sweetly and his lovely eye bright with satisfaction.

Sebastian held his face carefully composed. 

‘Well,’ he said. And he couldn’t think of anything to say. Nothing that a butler is permitted to say to his master. Nothing that an adult is permitted to say to a child.

He bowed, instead. And held the box back out to the earl. And the earl took it, still smiling, and put it back on the desk.

‘Do you like it?’

Sebastian flexed his toes within his polished oxford shoes. ‘Any servant would be most gratified by such a gift from--’

‘No,’ the earl said. ‘Do you like it?’

‘The workmanship is most remarkable, my lord. And the quality--’

‘Do you like the collar, Sebastian?’

‘Sir--’

‘Would it please you to wear it?’

‘The matter of--’

‘Sebastian.’ 

He was silent. He wasn’t going to answer the brat.

‘Answer my question. One word.’

‘One word, sir?’ And really, the little monster had _asked_ for it.

‘Yes.’

Sebastian looked at him. ‘ _Pedicabo_ ,’ he said. 

And it was foolish of him, of course. He knew the blow was coming before the boy even raised his hand. But he had to answer something, and the truth stuck sharp as a bone in his throat.

The boy threw his paperweight. It was green Murano glass. As big as his fist.

The impact was direct, and Sebastian closed his eyes. He felt the crunch against his cheekbone. No coordination. Very little strength in the earl’s small body. But a quite remarkable rage, and his master always managed to channel it with surprising results. 

The paperweight bounced and rolled on the soft carpet, undamaged at Sebastian’s feet.

‘Chocolate cake,’ said the boy. His young voice was infinitely cold and distant. ‘You _utter_ bastard. And you will never use such language in my presence again. Understood?’

‘Chocolate cake.’ Sebastian didn’t raise his hand to touch the ache of his cheek. He didn’t blink. His master wanted a reaction. He had shown too much already.

‘Don’t repeat what I say. You sound idiotic.’ The earl’s voice was cutting. ‘Chocolate cake for dessert. Or I shall make use of this toy.’ He drummed his little fingers on the paper box.

Sebastian paused. ‘Yes, my lord.’ That’s what he was supposed to say. So he said it. He was good at his job.

The demon could have pressed his hand to the hot swell of his cheek, and smoothed it away. But he didn’t. Not yet.

The earl dismissed him, a wave of his fingers. He was bent over his work again already.

And Sebastian went back down to the kitchen.

*****************

The knock on the study door just before lunch was slow and soft and not Sebastian’s, and Ciel glanced up with a frown. And put down his pen.

It was Mr Tanaka. 

And Ciel straightened slowly in the leather chair. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘What is it?’

‘My deepest apologies, young master. If you have a moment, I would like to speak with you.’

Ciel bit his lip thoughtfully.

‘Ah,’ he said. ‘There’s a problem?’

‘None at all, sir,’ said the old man quietly. His smile was disarming. But he rarely came up to the study these days, and never without a reason, and Ciel was not disarmed. ‘I only wished to make a suggestion, if I might be so bold.’

Ciel sat back in his seat. And it was not his seat; it was much too big for him.

And this is why he didn’t like the House Steward being up here, looking at his master in this room. It stung too sharply. Too near.

But he could keep his composure. ‘Go on,’ he said. 

‘Sebastian mentioned in passing that you have requested chocolate cake for your dessert tonight, my lord.’

And Ciel gripped the arms of his chair. ‘Did he, now?’

‘The details of your personal menu are no business of mine, my lord. But the smooth organisation of our household is one of my interests, as you can appreciate.’ Mr Tanaka’s lined face was gentle. There was a quiet authority in his voice. 

Ciel did not fidget. He did not move. But his heart was beating fiercely under his waistcoat. ‘It was only a dessert,’ he said coolly. ‘I wasn’t aware it was such a nuisance for all the parties concerned. It will take Sebastian ten minutes to make.’

‘Sebastian has already prepared the menus for the coming week, my lord. This is beyond the planning he and Bard have settled upon.’

‘It’s only a dessert,’ said Ciel again. Did the demon dare to tattle on him like a schoolyard brat? The pettiness. The utter puerile wretchedness. It was beneath Sebastian, actually. 

‘It is only a small thing,’ said Mr Tanaka. ‘But it is causing the chef some complications to his shopping list.’

Ciel folded his hands on the edge of the desk. His desk. He was the master here.

‘If we need more chocolate,’ he said, ‘we can order it in. We are not short on money, surely.’ He wanted to sharpen his voice. But the old man’s face was composed. Patient. Ciel knew that expression much too well.

‘If it is entirely necessary, my lord, we could.’

‘Sebastian could be to London and back in three hours if he wants chocolate that badly.’ Less, of course. There was nothing the beast couldn’t do. Except keep his nose out of his master’s affairs.

‘It is not the butler who is demanding chocolate, sir.’

Ciel met the Steward’s gaze, unmoved. ‘Sebastian can fetch it if _I_ demand it.’ And he put in the emphasis, this time. It was foolish. A fuss over nothing. 

‘He could,’ said Mr Tanaka. ‘I have every faith in our butler, sir. What I doubt is whether this is a good use of his time in such a busy week for the household, sir.’

Ciel frowned. ‘We can have it delivered. He doesn’t have to go personally. It was never supposed to be a complicated issue.’

But Mr Tanaka was looking at him as though he was being most unreasonable. And Ciel could not dismiss him as abruptly as he could the others, even if he wanted to. And he didn’t want to. Mr Tanaka had done nothing to earn his master’s anger.

And the man wasn’t a servant, not exactly. He had his own quarters. His own rules. He was independent here, a hired consultant, a professional businessman like a lawyer, or a family surgeon; he was respectful, but he was not being paid for his respect. He was being paid for his opinion, and his management. 

As he had been, long before Vincent Phantomhive’s son had ever sat at this desk.

‘I am aware of that, my lord.’ The old man was watching him carefully. ‘As it is a matter of such slight importance, I have no doubt you will not find the need to press such a request.’ Mr Tanaka bowed. ‘We have plenty of other things for you to eat, sir. If you are set upon having chocolate cake, we shall not question your decision. I only request that you recall your duties as our master, and your priorities as an example of worthy behaviour.’

The Steward was waiting. The old man had made no mention of anything else, what Sebastian might have _said._ Had the bastard demon mentioned the paperweight? Because if Mr Tanaka were to hear of that, the Earl of Phantomhive throwing a tantrum like a child--

Ciel looked at Mr Tanaka. He said it. ‘You think I am being unreasonable.’

‘I have simply observed that a small request is causing larger disruptions, sir.’

‘This is my property.’ Ciel spoke firmly. Fairly. ‘It is also my menu.’

‘It is your property,’ said Mr Tanaka. ‘And I have every faith that you will make a sensible decision on a simple issue.’

‘It isn’t about the cake,’ said Ciel shortly.

And Mr Tanaka bowed again. ‘I see.’ But he didn’t look surprised. ‘Whatever it does happen to about, my lord, I would only request that it does not involve the other staff. If you have any problems, I would be glad to offer what assistance I can, sir.’

Ciel’s cheeks were hot. He sat stiffly. 

But Mr Tanaka was leaving again, unhurried. He bowed at the door, and closed it softly.

Ciel slumped down in his chair. He could have done without a lecture this morning.

It was only words. It didn’t mean anything at all. Sebastian could complain all he liked-- but no, he wouldn’t have complained, would he? No complaints. He would only have sighed sorrowfully and said something about how _sad_ it was that the young master’s manners were failing so _dreadfully_ and what a _disappointment_ it must be to see a Phantomhive behaving like a spoilt child and ruining everyone’s nice little schedule.

As if it wasn’t Ciel’s house. _His_ bloody servants.

Sebastian thought he knew everyone so well. He knew what to say, to make them do things. He knew how to get what he wanted. The demon had wanted the Steward up here, standing in the earl’s study being _disappointed_ in the young master.

Not that it meant anything, in the end. It was only an old man’s opinion. Mr Tanaka’s disapproval.

And Ciel kicked the desk. ‘You bastard.’

He didn’t mean the old man.

He ought to call the butler up here.

He ought to prove a point. Sebastian must have biscuits somewhere. Or the rest of the cake, under a glass cloche in the quiet pantry.

Or chocolate. It would just be sitting there.

The butler had forbidden it, of course. But the butler liked to think he was in control of things. 

And that had been _before._ Before the paper box in the left-hand drawer of the desk. Ciel felt the hidden knowledge of it shake through him in a single cold chill, as though he were closing his hand over the pistol beneath his pillow.

He picked up his pen again. Wiped the nib clean, the smudge of watery black across his blotting paper. He was making little marks over the paper, dribbles of ink like a wet sky. But he wasn’t even looking at them.

He wanted to ring the bell for Sebastian. 

He had thought about this moment too often. But he’d tried, once. Last time in the library, when he had tried to command the thing. It had twisted things somehow, made a game of it, _played_ him when he tried to punish it. Sebastian’s teasing mouth, the shameless obscenity of his tongue. His mocking eyes. It would be dangerous to try it again.

But Ciel was the master. Everything was his.

He got up from his desk. And crossed to the fireplace where the velvet bell-pull hung, and he rang the bell for his servant.

Ciel was waiting at his desk when Sebastian entered. 

‘My lord.’

And he was trying to imagine what a demon might think. Might feel. 

‘You called.’

Ciel knew his own memories, the sense of dread and expectation at a summons to his father’s office for a scolding. The internal bracing, like a step into cold wind. 

Hard to know how much a demon might _feel._ Emotionally. 

But Ciel hoped it was enough to appreciate the perfect breathless vengeance of this moment.

He looked at Sebastian, at the tidy black butler’s livery. At his folded hands. His face, fine and tense.

Ciel considered explaining. _Mr Tanaka came up to speak to me._ Or asking. _Did you think you’d get away with using a profanity in my presence this morning?_

And then he realised that explanation is justification. The demon had earned neither. And the demon was quite aware of what he’d done to deserve this. 

Ciel curled up his hands until the joint cracked in his thumb.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘Jacket off.’

Sebastian looked at him. ‘Yes, my lord.’ And his eyes were deep, malicious, as he tilted his dark head. He shrugged the jacket back from his shoulders, slowly, watching Ciel from beneath his lowered eyelids. 

The butler tugged at one sleeve. Slid his arm from the silk lining.

And then the other, smoothly.

Making a point of it, and Ciel frowned.

‘Hurry up.’

But Sebastian didn’t hurry. And the fluid wriggle of his shoulders was much too suggestive as he dragged the jacket off, a flourish down his arms, and shook it out with a flap. Head still tipped. 

The demon licked his lips.

And this would never work. If he let Sebastian undress like that. If he let him take off his _shirt_.

New plan. Ciel cleared his throat. 

‘Kneel down,’ he said. ‘By the chair, here.’ 

In the very shadow of the Phantomhive desk.

And Ciel opened the desk drawer, not even bothering to see if the butler had obeyed him, and he turned back to Sebastian with the solid weight of the leather dog-collar in his hand.

Sebastian saw it. He didn’t speak, but the twitch of his hard mouth was everything Ciel had wanted. And the butler knelt down, slowly. His gloved fingers curled slightly, loose at his sides.

Ciel put the collar on the desk. He leaned down, running his finger under the band of his butler’s tie. He was bent close enough to hear Sebastian’s breathing, steady and very slow. The demon was watching him, following his movements.

Ciel felt the silk knot at the base of Sebastian’s throat. It looked like a knot. But when he took the cool fabric into his hand it wasn’t tight. He tugged, and the black silk almost hissed as it slid loose, the loop unwinding into tangling tails, and he took off Sebastian’s tie. 

The stiff white collar looked very bare without it.

Sebastian wasn’t looking at him. He was looking somewhere past him; the wall or the window, his eyes narrowed, his chin still tilted up. And there was a pulse there, under the angle of the demon’s jaw. Slow. Slow. Did Sebastian have a heart, then? He must, if he could bleed. The circulatory system. Did he look like a human inside, too? All over?

Ciel’s skin prickled hotly.

He picked up the dog-collar, and he didn’t hurry over it. Settling the band around Sebastian’s shirt-collar, tidy around his long neck. The leather was supple, waxed, but thick in Ciel’s fingers. It was stiff to push into the heavy buckle. 

Sebastian made a long low sound, very quietly. A suppressed sigh. Or lower in his throat, perhaps.

‘Sir.’

Ciel didn’t answer.

‘If you should require some assistance--’

‘ _You_ are going to stay quiet,’ said Ciel. 

The collar looked good. Mr Mayhew had been right: snug on a big dog. A nice fit, close around the starched white cotton collar. Tight enough to swell the tendons down Sebastian’s neck. Black as the butler’s tie had been, but much _much_ better.

And then Ciel attached the leash. Thick as his finger, a flex of black strap on the silver ring. The very smell of it was animal, the raw smell of fresh leather. 

Ciel stood back a step. Sebastian didn’t move. Wasn’t blinking. His narrowed gaze was fixed on the glare of the window still. 

‘Move closer,’ said Ciel. 

Sebastian had to part his knees as he shuffled forwards. And Ciel stepped between the demon’s knees, and he looked down. His chest buzzed, excited. 

He hadn’t known what he’d expected Sebastian to do. Or say.

But he looked at the tense line of the demon’s broad shoulders and remembered the dog. The black dog, a long time ago, its heavy neck shoved hard under his father’s strong hand, dragged to the front door for poking its sharp nose into a piece of fallen cake. Punished for scavenging. And even at ten years old Ciel had watched the dog’s slinking shame in fascination, in a roil of regret and a surge of satisfaction.

This was like that. But this was better.

Ciel felt Sebastian’s fingers brush at his ankles and he glanced down. 

‘No,’ he said. ‘Don’t touch me.’

And Sebastian stopped. Obedient. Ciel watched the flare of the demon’s thin nostrils, and he waited. And Sebastian put his hands back on his own knees, and didn’t look up at him. And the thrill rippled all the way down to Ciel’s knees.

Ciel could almost lean back against the edge of his desk.

He would have to pull Sebastian closer, though. 

Ciel tugged the leash sharply, and the demon’s lowered eyes were fixed on the carpet. His chin was held high, his beautiful face fixed coldly, but Ciel could almost feel the heat roll off the demon’s face as Sebastian moved closer. Closer. Until his dark knees bumped the desk.

‘Now,’ said Ciel. He wrapped the leash around his wrist. One. Twice. And he began to unbutton his shorts.

It shouldn't have made so much of a difference, the cool braid of leather in his fist. 

Slowly. Buttons. He was not as quick at this as Sebastian; but the demon had been undressing people for many years, now; he was good at these things.

Ciel pulled the leash sharply. And heard the demon’s sound. A choke.

He got his shorts open. He took the quiver of his own softness into his palm and squeezed it lightly. He didn’t even blush at touching himself in front of his servant. And there was a certain quickening delight in waiting for the shame and feeling only pleasure. Shameless. Is this how the demon felt? 

The demon’s eyes were hot, watching now. 

Ciel breathed in, rubbing his palm over his cock with a shiver. He curled his other hand, his right. The leash wrapped tight, and tighter, and he saw it press across Sebastian’s shoulder, into his black jacket. 

Sebastian was watching him. And it was different, now. Those long eyes had brought Ciel to a flush of fury this morning. And his servant’s stare still made him hot behind his knees. And shivery in the small of his back. But it was different, a delicious hard heat like something he could close his hand around. Like a weapon.

Sebastian’s eyes were on him. And Ciel wanted the demon watching him.

‘You’re clever,’ said Ciel. ‘You’re a clever dog. Aren’t you? I think you know what to do.’

‘Of course, my lord.’ The demon’s voice was drier than usual. ‘I think I can manage a little task like this.’

‘Silence,’ said Ciel. But he was unoffended. He’d expected worse. ‘If you mess me about, you’ll be waiting at the table in this collar. The decision is yours. And you know I’ll do it, too.’ He jerked the leash. Saw the jolt of the demon’s head.

Sebastian’s hands were knotted tightly, curled on his thighs. 

Ciel could do this exactly how he wanted. 

And he did. Clenching the leash. Guiding himself to the demon’s lips. Ciel felt Sebastian’s breath over his bare skin. And he slid his cock into the heat of Sebastian’s mouth. Ciel’s fingertips touched for a moment at Sebastian's chin, the line of his jaw. His knees shivered. But he steadied himself.

The demon’s mouth was hot and tender. Sebastian didn’t look up at his master, not this time. His dark lashes were lowered. The lines around his closed eyes were hard, composed. 

And Ciel slid his hand behind Sebastian’s neck, and felt the heavy rim of the leather collar, and he held the demon steady as he pushed in. He didn’t wait for the suck of Sebastian’s mouth. He didn’t need to wait. He knew what he wanted, and the demon let him deeper, allowed the thrust of his cock. No resistance. Not even a graze of those sharp teeth, only the liquid curl of the demon’s lush mouth and the grip of leather in Ciel’s hand.

Ciel moved harder. He wasn’t sure of the best way to do it. But if he rolled his hips he could slide and push and grind himself closer. He gasped. Sharply. And he _felt_ Sebastian’s sound, a hum in the hot mouth. 

Ciel’s skin burned. This was going to be a much quicker thing than he’d planned.

If he leaned back against the desk he could set his foot up on Sebastian’s lap. And he did, scuffing the heel of his boot into the demon’s thigh. 

Sebastian glanced up. His dark eyes flickered. The pupils. The shape of them. The flex, convulsive. Fierce.

Ciel’s belly tightened as if it was bound in knots. He stifled the little sound in his throat. He pushed his heel harder in Sebastian’s lap, firm in the butler’s flesh. And if he pushed deep enough into the devil’s mouth he could feel it, teeth against his flesh. The press of them, and Sebastian’s tightened lips.

Ciel closed his eyes. He moved his hips, breathless. Thrusting into Sebastian’s mouth. Burning. His cock ached, tickling, bumping the soft back of the demon’s throat. And this was how he’d wanted it. The beast on its knees for him. His servant under his hands. Using Sebastian’s body as carelessly as the creature treated him.

His head hummed. Brazen, brilliant, and he felt his blood rippling. He knew this feeling. It was the shattering of glass. The tang of wet blood, and fire and his demon’s voice. The percussive thump of a pistol in his hand. It was power. 

He’d felt this, watching Sebastian’s claws sink deep into the flesh of his enemies. Hearing the crack of bone, the crunch. It was a dizzy swell. And when he called the demon’s name and the demon answered. Power, yes. 

But never quite like this. Not against his demon. 

And Ciel rested his other hand on Sebastian’s head, the soft of his dark hair, and felt the demon’s head moving against him and it was too much, too good.

Ciel leaned back into the desk and arched. And deeper. And ground his boot-heel hard between Sebastian’s legs and heard the answering grunt around his cock, and finished, then. Rippling. Hot and hard. Soft on his servant’s tongue, and he curled his fingers into Sebastian’s warm hair and held him still until the shivers slowed behind his knees, his neck. The waves of it. 

Ciel had to wait, when he’d finished. He leaned there at the desk, breathing hard. Little gasps. And he pulled out of the demon’s mouth, and watched Sebastian slowly lick his bottom lip. And bite it. The demon didn’t look up at him. 

Ciel needed to button his shorts again. But his whole body felt heavy. His fingers didn’t want to work.

Sebastian was raising his hand to the leather collar again, pressing his gloved fingertips into it, and Ciel tugged the leash.

‘Don’t,’ he said. ‘I didn’t say you could move.’

Sebastian didn’t answer. The savage line of his mouth was sharply white.

Ciel buttoned himself slowly, feeling the weight of the leash across his wrist. And then he bent and undid the buckle of the dog-collar around the demon’s neck. Stiffly, but he knew what he was doing now. And he set the collar back on the desk, and handed Sebastian back his uniform tie. 

‘Put it on,’ he said.

Sebastian did. Still on his knees. Eyes half-closed, his gloved fingers automatic, drawing the length of black silk evenly around his neck. Did he do this without looking in the morning, up in his bedroom? Did he stand in front of a mirror? 

And Sebastian’s quick fingers were knotting, cross and tuck, and tuck, and cross, and tug, and a shuffle as he tightened the tie flush against the crisp collar again. 

Ciel sat down at his desk, and his knees still trembled. He cleared his throat.

‘Alright,’ he said. ‘You can stand up, now.’

Sebastian stood. Brushed off his knees meticulously. 

‘You needn’t bother me this afternoon,’ Ciel said. ‘Tanaka will bring up my tea.’

Sebastian smoothed back his hair. He bowed. ‘As you please, sir.’ Clipped and neat, his ready voice. ‘I trust there was nothing else you desired.’ 

And for a horrible moment Ciel thought the demon didn’t _care_. It wasn’t even cold, only brisk. Waiting. His beautiful face focused.

Ciel swallowed. Folded his hands. But the light from the fireplace across the room from them was only a glow, not fierce enough to cast a shadow. There shouldn’t be any shadows. And the shadows on the wall were moving. Writhing. A drip down from the cornice like a trail of pitch, of black blood. Stirring from the corner beside the book shelves like a drift of smoke. The beast. The beast was angry. 

And Ciel breathed out slowly.

‘There is nothing more,’ he said. ‘You may leave. I have everything I want.’

*************

_‘Flowers in a basket;_

_basket on the bed--’_

And the rhyme unravelled now.

_‘Bed in the chamber;_

_Chamber in the house;_

_House in the weedy yard;_

_Yard in the winding street--’_

They were next door at the kitchen table, Finny and Mey-rin. Sebastian could hear them. And his mind followed their words like a thread through a maze. Unravelled.

_‘Lane in the broad street;_

_Street in the high town;_

_Town in the city;_

_City in the Kingdom--’_

Finny’s voice, alone.

_‘This is the Key of the Kingdom._

_Of the Kingdom this is the Key.’_

The sun was lowering. The light through the kitchen windows fell oblique and pale over Sebastian’s hands. The clock and the sun appeared to disagree on the time, though; it was only mid-afternoon. But it was early in the year, and it was England.

Sebastian was tired of England.

He was washing the crystal glassware in the kitchen sink when Bard came back in from the vegetable garden.

‘Should I start on the croutons?’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. ‘I finished making them already.’ Which wasn’t even a little bit true, but small enough that the chef would never notice. It was a relief to lie. Fractional but visceral, as though a single splinter had been eased from his flesh.

‘You want a hand with that?’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. 

‘Right. I’ll be making beef stock. Call out if you need something.’

Sebastian didn’t turn his head. He heard Bard pulling out the heavy copper pots, and the grate of the damper being closed on the woodstove. And the demon turned the polished wineglass between his wet gloved fingertips, the slim stem delicate as ice. 

_Need._ He didn’t need assistance. He needed a holiday. It was written up clearly in the books, _one day off a month at half-pay_. In the column beside his name, _S Michaelis,_ the impertinent scribble of ink that was supposed to denote his entire self. 

_Names._

He wanted to bite something.

He was yet to ask for his days off. Then again, he never asked for his pay, either; it sat in the accounts book, too. In the Phantomhive vaults. But money was pointless. It couldn’t buy him anything he didn’t have already. It couldn’t buy him what he needed.

Sebastian squeezed out the dishcloth, a twist of wet. He needed a holiday. 

And two hours alone in his bedroom with the child upstairs. 

But the contract. The contract.

‘Sebastian--’

‘What?’ Shortly. And the demon felt it shatter between his fingers, glass and air. Frail as a bubble.

And Bard was standing with his mouth hanging open, stupid as only a mortal can look, blinking like a fish. ‘Oi,’ he said. ‘That’s a lot of blood.’

‘It looks worse than it is,’ said Sebastian. 

It looked bad. Perhaps it was a lie. The broken glass had gone through the wet cotton glove, a single shard into his palm. The tiresome fallibility of human flesh.

Sebastian frowned at the mess of his hand. And took the crisp-pressed linen cloth that Bard held out, and brushed off the man’s offer of assistance. 

He didn’t need help.

Bard continued standing there, awkward as ever. ‘I can get started on the aspic jelly if you want.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. And he was humiliated to hear the resonance in his own voice, scarcely controlled. He cleared his throat. ‘You can begin on the chocolate ganache for the young master’s cake.’

Bard disappeared into the pantry. 

And Sebastian washed his hands in the icy gush of the tap. Cold water for blood stains. Blood on cotton. He watched the bright swirl of red in the white porcelain sink. And he stripped off the wet gloves, and squeezed them out, and dried his bare hands. They felt tender, and they ached with cold. He raised the cold fingertips to his mouth, gently, and blew warm breath over them.

The cut on his hand was slight. It would not be difficult to heal. It took little more than a thought to do so.

And the demon crossed to the tailcoat hanging on the back of the kitchen chair, and felt inside the breast pocket, and found the clean dry gloves tucked inside. He pulled them on, and buttoned them. And he was presentable again, an ideal of a butler. More idea than thing, as he liked it. 

The demon picked up his knife and began to pare an orange at the marble bench, the bright fruit snug in his gloved palm.

He heard Bard’s steps, scuffling in the pantry.

Cake for his master’s dessert. The boy had ordered it. 

But Sebastian wasn’t about to think of it as defeat. He’d told his master that everything must be paid for, and the earl hadn’t paid for his chocolate yet.

The demon would prepare it for him, but it was not defeat. It was a premature expression of expected victory, if anything; but one must stay focused.

Ganache. Only chocolate and cream, and a splash of Cointreau; the earl was fond of citrus. Sebastian could whip the cream later, it takes a firm wrist, but even Bard ought to be able to melt chocolate without too much disaster.

The boy hadn’t paid for it.

But he would. Sebastian would make sure of it.

It was, Sebastian mused, an act of hopefulness to prepare it. And was it hopefulness, then, this perpetual heat in his bones? Mercurial, neither cold nor hot. Sharp, though. Fluid.

‘Which chocolate?’ From Bard, at the doorway.

‘In the basket beside the sugar.’ Sebastian didn’t look up. But it was necessary to be patient. Today. Tonight. ‘Only take half a parcel, if you please; I need the rest for gateaux next week.’

‘There’s only cocoa powder.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. The man was blind, honestly, and didn’t he have two eyes like the rest of them? ‘There is a basket. And it holds six pounds of the best Belgian couverture and a glass bottle full of vanilla beans. And if you cannot find it, Bard, I shall have to come and find it for myself.’ 

He looked up at Bard. 

The chef rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Sorry, Sebastian.’ He shrugged. ‘I can’t find it.’

Sebastian put down his knife. Wiped his hands. ‘I see,’ he said, and the uneasiness in Bard’s face was a pleasant heat in the demon’s spine. He heard Bard fall into step beside him on the way to the pantry, and they opened the wooden door of it and pulled on the light-switch.

Sebastian tucked his hands behind his back and squeezed them tightly. ‘Ah,’ he said. 

‘I can’t see it here,’ said Bard cautiously, because he was almost wise for a mortal, sometimes, and he knew better than to say _I told you so_ to the house’s head butler. 

But the basket on the pantry shelf was empty. There was no chocolate.

Not here, anyhow. Sebastian closed his eyes. 

And he concentrated on the scent here in the pantry, the overwhelming dustiness of flour, and sap-sweet cane sugar, and the buzz of spices in the silver case. The herbal lingering of tea, mint. And the history of human smells; Mey-rin’s sweetness. Bard, of course, smoke and sweat. 

_‘Town in the city;_

_City in the Kingdom--’_

And there it was, embedded in the nest of scent, the freshness of the child’s body, bright as an apple in a wet garden. Not from the other night, the trace of small fingers on the raisin jar still; this was fresh as dew. 

Sebastian’s blood flared. He opened his eyes.

Bard was watching him, his pale brows still gathered. The man’s handsome face showed anxiety.

But Sebastian’s thoughts were clear. He had never felt so utterly and entirely composed. He switched off the pantry light, and they stepped back into the cool stone corridor.

Chocolate, is it?

Oh, young master.

‘I can ask Mey-rin,’ said Bard as they re-entered the kitchen. ‘About where the parcels of--’

‘Forget the chocolate.’ Sebastian was untying his apron. 

_This is the Key of the Kingdom._

The tightness in Sebastian’s chest was something he almost didn’t have words for. 

_Of the Kingdom this is the Key._

‘But the cake, the earl will be--’

‘Forget the cake,’ Sebastian said. He pushed his apron into Bard’s hands and reached for his tailcoat hanging on the chair. ‘It is no longer important.’

‘The young master,’ said Bard. Hesitant.

‘The young master will be most understanding.’ Sebastian was unrolling his shirt-sleeves. His fingers felt as though they were on fire. ‘I promised my lord that I would take care of his sweets. I do not lie, you see.’

‘He might be upset, though.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. ‘He will. But I shall take care of it. The young master will be having something else for his dessert today.’

He smiled at Bard. Vividly, cleanly. And saw the chef’s face falter.

And Sebastian pulled his jacket on, and went upstairs.

  
  
  
  
  



	12. ante {before}

It was quiet, drizzly, this long afternoon. 

Ciel had been in the library. 

He was supposed to be finishing up his work in the office, of course, but it hadn’t happened the way he planned: he’d sat at his desk for quite a while after Sebastian had gone again, looking at the collar on the desk. Still dizzy, faint with triumph. It seemed impossible. It had been so simple in the end. But it couldn’t be impossible, because the collar was sitting there, and the room was silent, and Ciel’s blood still surged with his utter satisfaction. Slow, languid.

And then he’d put the collar away in the desk drawer, and looked at the stack of paperwork on his desk. Latin and accounts. And he was sleepy suddenly. He’d die of boredom if he had to look at numbers. 

So Ciel went into the library, looking for a book. Or intending to. 

But his leather armchair was pulled up close beside the fire, and it looked calm and quiet, and Ciel sat down. Curled up his legs. Didn’t even make it to the bookshelf at all. The leather was cool against the side of his thigh but his head was heavy now, and Ciel didn’t care, and he was going to fall asleep if he wasn’t careful. 

And no, he was already falling asleep.

And this was the best thing about doing _that_ , pleasure or release or whatever he should call it. This was what the demon gave him. Or what Ciel could take from him: this heaviness, this stillness that was almost peace.

He nestled into the chair in a way he could never do if there was somebody present. Listening to the quiet. Endless. Sinuous silence. Not even an echo, and Ciel let it pull him under.

The smattering of rain on the small-paned window woke him. Time moves strangely after sleep, and he didn’t know what day it was. He blinked at the low fire, the grey light. It was late afternoon; but he didn’t need to rush himself. 

Ciel closed his eyes again. He wanted tea. He ought to ask for biscuits while he was at it. The demon would have no comeback this time, not unless he wanted another punishment; he’d only have words, as usual. Pointed, or pointless. Or obscene.

_Pedicabo._

Ciel had seen this word before. And when Sebastian had said it he’d known what it meant. Although it hadn’t exactly come up in his Latin lessons: he’d seen it in this very library, amidst Catullus’ poetry. Unglossed; the dictionary hadn’t helped him. There was no translation. The only English version didn’t even include that first line. And that was probably how he’d first guessed its meaning: how bad does a thing have to be before somebody refuses to translate it?

But later he’d seen it again in _Hermaphroditus._

Ciel had found this book last year when he was brushing up on his Roman deities; Hermaphroditus was one of the love gods. Which was quite dull, but this one had the body of a man and a woman at the same time, apparently, which wasn’t dull at all-- would they let you go to a girl’s school, if you had both? And be a soldier too? Rather fascinating, really, and Ciel had taken a look inside the book. Perhaps it would have an illustration. 

It was all Latin. And not about gods at all; but there was a quote of Martialis, and something about Hector. The Trojan hero _._ Ciel had stopped and gone back to the start of the sentence. _Masturbabantur._ And that was clear enough, and he’d felt his cheeks grow hot as he translated. 

_The Phrygian slaves would masturbate behind closed doors whenever Hector’s wife mounted her horse_ , and oh. Not a horse. And that was where he’d seen that word again: _pedicare negas. Negas;_ that means it was being forbidden. And something about Porcia bending over for Brutus. 

And then there was a whole section on _pederastia_ , and now he knew exactly what the word meant-- and all about the Roman prostitutes who plucked their body hair off, all over, and the men who applauded whenever somebody with a particularly large cock entered the bathhouse; and somebody was being insulted because his arsehole was worn more ragged than his clothes. There were a _lot_ of insults. Mouths and dicks and whips and goats. The Romans talked about these things as lightly as the street-whores in Whitechapel. As though it was a joke.

And Ciel had closed the book, and put it back on the shelf, and hadn’t gone near it again.

He didn’t need to look it up again. He knew exactly what the demon had said to him. Verb ending. An action. The Greek root of the word means _boy._ A young boy. And the Romans had taken the word, as they took all words, all gods, all customs, in vast incestuous greed; and the literal translation would probably be _I’ll take you like a Greek boy_ and everyone knows what that means. It had come to mean the whole thing now; even the street-girls said it. _I charge extra if you want it the Greek way, sweetheart._

You want to fuck me, beast?

 _Pedicabo_ indeed. 

As if he’d let the creature treat him like that. Held down and used so vilely. Even as an insult it was unforgivable. As if he’d ever let anyone touch him like that again.

Ciel stirred, rubbing his tired eyes with his fists. He needed tea. And he uncurled stiffly from the chair to reach the bell-pull, and flopped back into his seat again. Finding the warm spot on the leather cushion. Because this is what power is: you call, and they answer. You order, and they obey. You keep a gun beneath your pillow. And nobody can hurt you. Not even demons: and Ciel looked at the fire through his half-closed eyes. The lick of the flames, and the slow-collapsing glow. 

It would be good to see it again. Sebastian down on his knees. No light of triumph in the demon’s hot gaze, only anger, and his hands curled tightly. Down on his knees. Or on his back; and Ciel shut his eyes again. Ah. That would be even better. Like a victim, dead already. Ciel would be able to do anything to him. Like Hector, like Hector’s wife mounting a horse; and Ciel bit his lip. 

That would be even better. 

The door was opening. Mr Tanaka had brought his tea up; and Ciel had almost forgotten, actually, that he’d commanded Sebastian to leave him alone for the rest of the day.

Ciel didn’t glance over as the old man poured, and stirred, and carried over the cup.

There were no biscuits. 

If it were Sebastian, Ciel would have simply said it: _there are no biscuits._ Because the creature knew his expectations. But it was the Steward, and the Earl of Phantomhive had looked like a spoilt child once already today. 

So Ciel turned it into a question. ‘Are there any biscuits?’

‘I’m afraid not, my lord,’ said Mr Tanaka. ‘But I believe you are having chocolate cake for dessert after all.’ That’s all he said. Not even disapprovingly; just quietly. 

Ciel knew better than to ask again. It was true, anyway; he’d have cake tonight. And that was a triumph. The whole day was. He’d gotten what he wanted and Sebastian had just _endured_ it and it wouldn’t be the last time. 

The chocolate cake this evening would be good; Ciel didn’t doubt it. It had been a long time since the butler served him anything less than perfection. But even three layers of whipped cream couldn’t taste better than Sebastian’s submission had tasted. His hard eyes. His silence. His gloved hands, quick and furious, replacing his black tie.

Ciel had gotten what he wanted.

Tanaka might disapprove. He knew Ciel had upset the butler somehow. But he didn’t understand Sebastian, or the effort it took to keep a creature like that contained. _Give them an inch and they'll take a mile,_ said Mr Courtenay: he was the head of Funtom quality control. If you don’t keep a tight leash on your employees, they take advantage of it. 

Sebastian was no different. Ciel didn’t expect Mr Tanaka to understand it. And certainly, if the Steward knew what his master had done to Sebastian this afternoon--

There was no point thinking about it. Ciel didn’t expect anybody else to understand: this was between him and Sebastian. It was nobody’s business.

‘If there is anything else you need, sir, I shall be happy to assist.’ Mr Tanaka bowed and left.

Ciel sighed as he picked up his tea-cup. A bloody biscuit would be nice. He needed something to eat before he faced his paperwork again. The tea was piping hot. And sweet enough, but it didn’t taste quite the same when somebody else made it. An indefinable difference.

Damn the beast.

If he had a biscuit, though.

The shortbread ones with rough little grains of sugar on top like sand. Or the rolled-up ones with red jam striped through them. Or the ones dipped in chocolate. The bastard butler probably had a whole pantry full of them; he’d already admitted he had chocolate down there.

Ciel put down his tea-cup. 

He thought for a while as he sipped. 

And when the tea was finished, when he had re-settled the empty cup like a porcelain shell on its saucer, Ciel left the library and went downstairs to the kitchen pantry and stole six pounds of chocolate. 

On reflection, it was really too much.

Ciel considered as he unwrapped the second block. 

He’d taken it back to the study, to his desk, and he was eating as he opened up his paperwork again.

He hadn’t needed to take it all. The place had been empty, only Bard whistling in the store-room, and Ciel hadn’t even rushed. But it wouldn’t hurt to have some in the drawer of his desk. It was only Monday; he still had a week of business work ahead of him and if Sebastian was going to be difficult about his sweets, he might as well take care of it himself.

Ciel leaned over the page, his pen poised. And somebody in the accounts team had made an error in the exports log. ‘Carry the bloody 3, you fool,’ he muttered, and corrected it in red. A small detail. But these things, these overlooked things. There is no such thing as a small detail.

He was still tired.

It would be dinner time in a few hours, but he was hardly hungry now. Not after this much chocolate.

Ciel took another bite. His teeth sinking into the dense bar, trying to lever off the corner. Deeper. A crack, and he winced; but the piece came loose. Bloody useless, a solid bar. _Couverture_ , said the paper band around the foil, which was clearly French for _we were too lazy to make this into a remotely edible size._

He hadn’t done this for quite a while. Taking what he wanted, sitting back and watching the butler’s face. Foolish, really. When had he allowed himself to fear the monster he’d tethered? When had this game become more than a game?

It should never have been anything more. Wouldn’t be, not when he held all the cards.

There was a knock and the study door opened. It was Sebastian. And he didn’t bow when he entered. He only smiled when he closed the door.

Ciel stopped. Swallowed. And wiped his chin with the back of his hand, self-conscious suddenly.

‘What is it now?’

Sebastian nodded towards the desk. ‘You found the chocolate, sir.’ Steadily as he approached. His hands tucked tidily behind him.

‘Clearly.’ Ciel put down the bar. He folded his own hands on his desk but the imposing effect was somewhat ruined by the mess of scattered chocolate crumbs over his open files.

‘You could have waited, sir.’ The butler was at his side. And Sebastian bent over him. Ciel found his chin caught in that iron grip. ‘I was in the very process of making your cake.’

Sebastian’s gloved thumb smudged slowly over Ciel’s bottom lip. 

‘I was hungry.’ Ciel tried to pull his head away. He didn’t have time for this nonsense.

‘No,’ said the butler, ‘you were greedy, sir.’

Ciel slapped Sebastian’s hand away. ‘Get off me,’ he said. ‘You’ve forgotten who your master is.’

‘Not at all, my lord. But you appear to have forgotten what I said would happen if you stole anything else from the kitchen.’

‘I am the master.’ Ciel swallowed. ‘It isn’t stealing if it’s my house.’

‘I believe I explained this to you quite clearly, sir.’

‘I believe I told you I don’t give a rat’s--’

‘My lord.’ The butler’s voice was cold. 

Ciel looked up at him. Sebastian’s eyes were bright. Focused, and it was unnerving. 

‘I do not need you to care, sir. I only need you to do as you're told.’

Ciel stood up. 

‘No,’ said Sebastian. He put his hand on Ciel’s shoulder and pushed him back into the chair. ‘Dear me, no. Not yet, sir. If you are going to take sweets, you must also take the consequences.’

‘I have no idea what you mean,’ Ciel said. Icy. Unconvincing. Of course the demon had said it. The demon said a lot of things. All of them true. And it was very hard to feign ignorance when Sebastian’s arousal was level with Ciel’s eyes. His whole warm body much too near. There was nowhere else to look.

And then Ciel’s fingers were caught in the demon’s grip and he was shaking. Before Sebastian even guided his hand to touch it. Firmly, and it was stiff already. Hot through the fabric.

Ciel shivered. 

‘Now,’ said Sebastian quietly. ‘You know what I want, sir.’

Ciel looked up at the demon’s face. Pale, pleasant. He wanted to clench his hand but that would drive his captured fingers deeper into the demon’s waiting cock. ‘I can’t.’ It was a whisper. And Ciel had wanted to say something else but this was all that came out. 

The demon looked down at him, his long eyes a deepening glow. Steady. Dark-lashed. ‘You can, sir. You simply won’t. Is that what you mean?’

‘Of course I bloody won’t.’ Ciel didn’t dare look away from Sebastian’s eyes. Or he’d never meet the demon’s gaze again. He would not look at his hand, at the warm pulse of Sebastian’s cock pressed under it.

‘Of course, if it frightens you so very much--’

‘I’m not frightened.’

‘You always have been, sir. Isn’t that so?’ The grip on Ciel’s wrist was relentless but Sebastian’s other hand was feather-light at his chin. ‘Since you sat waiting in your cage. The hatchling still clinging to its shell.’ 

‘I can’t,’ Ciel said. Roughly. He squeezed his eyes closed. And felt the demon’s fingertip run over his chin, slow and gentle. 

‘I see.’ The finger-tip traced along his lips. ‘Faithless.’

Ciel opened his eyes to blink, to glare. ‘Faithless--’

‘You may break your word if you like, sir. Perhaps a child is incapable of understanding the meaning of such a bond.’ Sebastian’s face was drawn up in amusement. 

Cold, clean, and the back of Ciel’s neck chilled. But the heat in his belly was unbearable.

‘I am not here to serve my servants,’ he said. ‘I am the master.’ His throat felt dry. ‘You have no power over me.’

There was a keen edge in the lines of Sebastian’s face. ‘So you said, my lord. You seem quite eager to convince us both. Of course, if you are tiring of this game, sir.’ It shouldn’t have sounded like a statement.

Ciel’s hand was clammy against the demon’s hot body. ‘Beg,’ he said.

Sebastian’s brows gathered. ‘Sir?’

‘Beg for it. If this is what you want from me.’ Ciel met the hot gaze with marble steadiness. Holding his hand still. ‘That’s what dogs do, isn’t it?’

The demon’s eyes were unreadable. Infinitely dark. ‘Sir.’

‘You are going to beg for it, Sebastian.’

Sebastian’s shoulders rose and fell. His mouth was pinched thoughtfully. And he shifted his hold on Ciel’s wrist, easing slightly. Rubbing Ciel’s palm harder into the stiffened flesh.

Ciel flinched.

‘My lord. Will you do me the honour, the infinite honour--’ Sebastian licked his lips.

‘Go on.’

‘--of permitting your servant a moment of physical release--’

‘And?’

‘And the pleasure of your mouth.’ Sebastian’s face was steady but his fingers twitched on Ciel’s wrist. ‘Your admittedly lovely little mouth.’

Ciel huffed. ‘ _Damn_ you. Of all the miserable bloody--’

‘Please.’

Ciel stared.

‘Please.’ Sebastian bent low. His mouth at Ciel’s ear. ‘My lord. My young master. Please.’ 

The whisper tickled his cheek. Ciel held his breath. Beneath the black wool, the demon’s arousal kicked against his palm like a living thing. 

‘Let go of my hand,’ Ciel said. A small voice. 

And perhaps the demon knew it was compliance. Because it wasn’t defiance, and when Sebastian released his wrist and stood up, Ciel said nothing more.

Sebastian was unbuttoning his trousers.

A sharp edge of dark hair, ink-black in the open gap of cloth. The flash of pallid skin. And Sebastian’s bare cock. Dark against the crisp white glove as Sebastian eased himself from the fly of the open trousers. Straining full and flushed the colour of a bruise, desperate purplish. Thick, arching. 

And the demon’s other hand was at Ciel’s chin.

Ciel breathed in sharply. It was a new scent, heavy and salty and rank animal and no, he knew this. It was sex and hot and his throat burned.

Sebastian settled his knee on the arm of the chair. And even if Ciel pressed his head back against the cushion there was nowhere to go. The demon was leaning over him, holding the back of the chair. 

Ciel squeezed his eyes shut. 

The first touch at his lips was soft as a fingertip, but hot and silken-firm and he didn’t dare open his eyes.

‘No?’ The demon’s voice was low. A prickle of heat down Ciel’s neck. ‘My lord is too refined to suck.’

Hot against Ciel’s lips, and he pursed them tighter. 

The rounded tip of the filthy thing slid down Ciel’s chin. His cheek. Rubbing over his mouth, and Ciel dug his nails deep into his knees. 

‘You will open your mouth, sir. Or I shall find somewhere else to put this.’

Ciel opened his eyes. ‘Don’t you bloody dare.’

Sebastian smiled over him. Bright, vicious. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘You understand quite well, don’t you, sir?’

And he took hold of Ciel’s wrist again, and this time the stiffness under Ciel’s hand was the demon’s raw cock. Warm to the touch.

Ciel’s fingers couldn’t close around it, and he was colouring furiously, and he knew the demon was watching him. Scarcely breathing.

‘Both hands, sir.’ 

Ciel bit his lip. He used both hands. He didn’t glance up. But perhaps it would have been easier than looking at the hot flesh in his grip, and the dark swell of the vein down its length. The heavy swing of the demon’s sac. 

‘Tighter,’ said Sebastian. ‘Really. You aren’t even trying, sir.’

The butler’s gloved hand closed over his, over the whole thing, squeezing. It shifted the velvet crumple of soft foreskin, eyelid-fine. Pulled it back. And under the slip of it was a different skin, tight and satin-smooth and red as bitten lips.

Ciel felt the tap at his chin. ‘Open.’

The slit was raw-red, glistening. Obscene as an open cut. 

He needed to protest. But Ciel parted his lips. And put out his tongue, the merest tip, and licked at Sebastian’s cock.

A tang of sweet warm butter, and of metal; bitter, salt. The taste ached all the way down his body.

Again, and Ciel heard the demon’s sound. Soft and impatient. Sebastian didn’t say anything, though, so Ciel pressed his lips to the rounded head, slick under his tongue, and opened his mouth. 

And further, deeper around the thickness, tentatively, and the head pressed heavy in his gathered mouth. Firm. And the sound Sebastian made seemed to singe the edges of his mind. A flare. His bones.

He waited, but the demon didn’t move. And Ciel moved his mouth slowly, suckling at the plump tip of Sebastian’s cock. 

The demon’s long fingers slid into Ciel’s hair.

‘ _Mhm_.’ It was only a sound. But Ciel held tighter. His heartbeat shook in his fingertips. And he held tighter again so he wouldn’t be tempted to reach down and touch himself. The swell, the swell of his own arousal and he didn’t want to think about it.

The corners of his mouth were wet. He allowed the demon to push deeper. And it shouldn’t have throbbed in his blood like this, the pulse of Sebastian’s cock against his tongue. He was burning. 

Sebastian’s hand cupped his cheek. ‘My young master.’ The demon’s voice was gentle. ‘My pride is not so great as yours. Did you think I would not beg?’

The demon’s fingers twined deeper in Ciel’s hair.

‘There is no promise I wouldn’t make. And I would keep them all, sir. Because--’ Tightly. ‘Because the price is not too much to pay. I will beg like a beast, my lord, if this is my reward--’

Ciel wriggled.

‘--watching you open for me. Watching you suck. Feeling my cock half-way down your throat.’

Ciel cried out, muffled, but his hair was gripped hard. And Sebastian’s voice was delicate as petals above him.

‘I keep my promises, sir. I am not--’ And the demon’s voice wavered as Ciel struggled. 

_Fucker._ Only a gurgle. 

‘--not faithless. And neither are you.’

And it shoved deep in the back of his throat, Sebastian’s taste, and Ciel closed his eyes hard. He was gulping. He couldn’t breathe, and the butler’s fingertips at his cheek were stroking. 

‘You will finish what you have begun. And so-- _hnn_. So will I.’

Hard in the back of his throat and he was choking. Panicking. And he couldn’t swallow. And it stung, deep and relentless and harsh as metal and he choked again. His throat seized. His whole body.

And then it was bright white behind his eyes and Ciel was gasping for air and he was released. Sebastian’s cock slid from his mouth. 

He felt the hot trail of spit drape across his chin.

And the demon’s hand was still gentle in his hair as though he _cared_.

Ciel couldn’t open his eyes. Even though he knew where he was. His chair, his home. ‘I won’t.’ It was hoarse. ‘You’re not allowed. You can’t make me.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. And his sigh was lingering, soft with regret. ‘No, I cannot.’

Sebastian’s hands slipped under his arms. And Ciel was hoisted and plumped up on the edge of the desk. And pushed down on his back. His eyes were wide open now.

‘Oi,’ he said, ‘don’t you--’

‘It will not take long, sir.’

Ciel struggled to sit up again but Sebastian’s spread hand was firm on his chest. His head bumped back on the desk. 

And the butler was leaning over him, and Ciel felt the slow fingers moving over his chest. His waistcoat buttons.

‘This wasn’t part of--’

‘Hold still.’ 

Ciel wanted to kick but his legs were pinned by the demon’s weight. And then his shirt was pulled open and Sebastian was dragging Ciel close. Parting his legs. And even with his shorts on it was much too naked, lying here.

And the demon was smiling down at him, a terrible small thing, and Ciel couldn’t breathe. 

Sebastian laid his cock over Ciel’s belly. 

Ciel tried to shrink away from it but the underside brushed his shorts. 

‘Gently,’ said Sebastian, but Ciel hadn’t said anything. He was shivering. His shoulder was pinned under Sebastian’s hand and the demon was holding the thickened cock pressed down against Ciel’s body, and it was dark as wounded flesh. Long enough to reach to the bare skin above Ciel’s waistband. And Sebastian sighed, hanging over him, and Ciel realised with an unutterable horror that the demon was measuring against his body.

Ciel closed his eyes and he was gasping for air. Stiff, shuddering with shame. With fury. Sebastian’s body was warm between his knees and his shorts were straining. And if the demon looked down at his master, saw the helpless arousal underneath him--

Ciel half-opened his eyes. 

Sebastian was dragging off his glove, his right, pinched between his teeth. 

The first touch of his bare finger was light down Ciel’s chest.

It brushed over Ciel’s ribs. Circled the dip of his navel. And trailed back up again, Sebastian’s warm palm flat over Ciel’s chest, his throat, smooth over his collar-bone. Softly around his throat. 

Ciel tried not to look up at the demon’s face above him, the hungry lips parted. The heavy eye-lids lowered. And Sebastian’s fingers brushed down again, all the way to the high woollen waistband, and Ciel was afraid the demon would undo these buttons too.

But Sebastian didn’t. His touch was careful. Deliberate. As if he’d heard a thing described and couldn’t be sure until he’d touched it. And his fingers played lightly over Ciel’s chest and found the flinch of his nipple. And flicked it.

It stung, it was fire over his skin. Ciel quivered. 

‘Tender little thing,’ Sebastian whispered. The line of his mouth twisted horribly and Ciel felt the sharp edge of the demon’s nails. Tracing. Pressing. Pinching, and Ciel cried out.

Sebastian’s lip curled. His teeth glittered sharp. And his other hand was teasing himself just as fiercely. Delicately. Pressing into the soft sac beneath. Firm around the thick base and the smudge of inky hair.

Ciel couldn’t help watching. Sebastian’s hand squeezed tight. He handled himself more roughly than Ciel had ever touched himself, hard and fast in a sliding grip. 

And Ciel ached between the teasing hand on his body, the demon’s hungry fingers, and the sight of Sebastian’s shameless need. That heavy cock, blood-flushed. 

‘I told you I would have your mouth, sir.’ The demon’s voice was hushed. ‘And I will.’

Ciel tried not to wince. But Sebastian’s fingers were gentle over his lips, pressing between them. 

Ciel felt them down the length of his tongue. Warm, hard. Sliding deeper, pressing into his throat. 

He tried not to swallow. He choked.

The fingers were thrusting in his mouth, the rhythm slow. Obscene. Sliding over Ciel’s tongue, curling hard at the back of his throat. As slow and deep as the demon was pumping himself, hungrily.

And then Sebastian shifted his hand. It was only his thumb now, hooked in the side of Ciel’s mouth. Firm against his teeth. 

‘Sir.’ The demon’s eyes were almost black. ‘Say my name.’

Ciel bit down on Sebastian’s thumb.

' _Lupa_ ,’ Sebastian whispered. _Wolf._ ‘Harder.’ He bared his own canines, a glisten. 

Ciel glared. And clenched his teeth.

And he saw Sebastian shiver. His uniformed shoulders, his bare cock.

And the hot sputter, milky. Another, more, pumped wet over Ciel’s bare chest and neck and he gasped with fury. With disgust, and Sebastian moaned. Low and warm.

And Ciel hated the demon as much as he hated the tremble inside his tight-buttoned shorts. He closed his eyes.

 _Lupa._ Not only wolf, no. It means _slut._

He was half-burnt with shame. Ablaze. The silence was pounding in his ears.

Sebastian sighed above him. ‘Oh dear.’ Quite softly. ‘I do believe my aim was a little off, sir.’ He felt the demon’s finger-tip smudge his cheek. And push between his lips, and Ciel sputtered. Salt. The beast was wiping _that_ into his mouth. Trailing it over his tongue. Bitter as green tea, and Ciel spat at the demon’s finger.

Sebastian swept back the fall of his hair as he bent down. Ciel felt the slow stripe of the demon’s hot tongue over his belly. He stiffened, trying not to flinch at Sebastian’s touch. The slow lap of the demon’s mouth cleaning his own mess from Ciel’s skin. And Ciel’s heart was hammering, hot in his hands, his cock, tight-buttoned, and he could only lie still and wait for Sebastian to finish with him.

The demon’s mouth found the tickle of his nipple. And flicked it, lapped at it. Ciel swallowed his whimper. Swallowed his aching voice. And if the demon didn’t stop, didn’t _stop_ , his hot delicate tongue, Ciel would melt on the desk. He’d finish in his shorts. 

‘Enough,’ he said hoarsely.

When he opened his eyes Sebastian was watching him. Those terrible eyes. Long, half-closed, and his mouth curled slowly. 

And Sebastian straightened again, and sighed as he began to button himself. 

‘It would appear that I have also ruined your shirt.’ Thoughtfully. A nasty show of regret. ‘Tsk. See what you’ve done, sir?’ Sebastian flicked insolent fingers against Ciel’s chest as he leaned down to tidy his master’s rumpled clothing.

But Ciel pushed the butler’s hands away. ‘Me,’ he said. Flat with fury, and Sebastian let him struggle upright on the desk. Panting for air. ‘What did I do?’

Sebastian shrugged. ‘If you had taken it in your mouth when I requested, sir, we would have had no difficulty.’

Ciel steadied himself. Still shaking. He wanted to cry but not this time, he wouldn’t give the beast the satisfaction. His breath came in gasps. 

He was lifted down. Set on his feet. The butler was fixing Ciel’s shirt. Tugging Ciel’s jacket straight. Brushing down his chest, and Sebastian’s hand slid lower. To the agony of Ciel’s hot tucked-up cock.

‘I would offer to take care of _this_ for you, sir.’ The butler’s smile was pleasant as he squeezed. Ciel gasped. ‘But I would never presume to suggest you require such a thing. I cannot imagine you could be aroused. After all, you could hardly have enjoyed that, could you?’

Ciel couldn’t answer. He couldn’t. 

And then Sebastian was finished. _Bowing_ , the bastard, and he was gone. The study was empty.

Ciel’s legs trembled. He folded up on the floor. He knelt there, his hands on the rug. Beside his chair. Beside the desk. Looking at his fingers splayed on the carpet, still shaking. He hated it.

And he crawled under the desk, in the dim kickspace like a little cave. Warm oaken darkness. And he undid his shorts slowly, his fingertips shaking on the buttons, and he watched himself. Squeezing, stroking. The twitch of his cock in his own clenching grip.

The way it trembled against his palm before it came, the blinding pressure. The little spurt and glisten over his thigh.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. 

Ciel leaned his head back against the heavy oak. Breathing the dusty silence.

Sebastian should never have left him like this. Unforgivable.

Ciel found his handkerchief and wiped down his leg meticulously. Buttoned himself. The salt taste of the demon’s cock still ached in his throat.

Unforgivable. Held down and used so vilely. The thought of it should never have left him like this. 

Shaking. And spent. And throbbing again already.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to dear @sinnergy for the brilliant beta!
> 
> The book Ciel read, _Hermaphroditus _, is very real and very naughty. You can find the pdf online. The original edition was never released publicly because there were so many private subscribers already-- mostly wealthy patrons and collectors and medical people. And horny noblemen too. I have a headcanon that Vincent Phantomhive put together Britain's biggest private collection of rare pornographic books ^^__
> 
> _  
> _I hope you enjoyed this one, darlings. Come and find me @amanitus on Tumblr and there might be some bits and pieces before the next update~_  
> _


	13. intra {within}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Artwork is by the fabulous [peonacotton](https://peonacotton.tumblr.com/).
> 
> I apologise in advance. This chapter isn't cute, guys...

Bard cleared his throat noisily.

‘You know,’ he said, ‘there’s always cocoa.’ He replaced the lid on the simmering stock-pot and turned to Sebastian.

But the butler wasn’t answering him properly this evening.

‘Mhm.’ Quietly from across the kitchen bench. Almost lost in the clatter of herbs being chopped. Sebastian didn’t even look up from his work.

Bard put down his wooden spoon and tried again.

‘That chocolate Victoria sponge recipe,’ he said. ‘It only needs cocoa. You can still make the young master’s cake.’

And this time Sebastian raised his head. ‘Oh,’ he said, and his glittering eyes seemed to focus. He glanced away from Bard to the clock. Half-past five, and they were into the home stretch of dinner preparation: gravy. Garnishes. Heating the plates and polishing the glassware.

‘It doesn’t matter anymore. I’ve made a blancmange instead. What’s the matter with your gravy?’

Bard frowned. ‘What? Nothing. Why, what’s wrong with it?’

‘No zest.’

‘What?’

‘Balance. It’s going to be much too rich, you’ll need to put some zest in it.’

‘Oh.’ Bard glanced back over at the little copper pan on the stove-top. ‘What sort of zest?’

‘Use oranges.’

‘Oranges--’

‘Good grief. Oranges, Bard-- round and fruity and orange. Look sharp, now--’

Bard put his hand up. More instinct than anything. Caught the orange Sebastian had lobbed at him, and turned it over thoughtfully in his hand as the butler disappeared back into the pantry with a crisp snap of his heels.

Bard sighed and turned back to skim the simmering broth. 

Sebastian was a difficult bastard to read.

Sometimes he was brisk and sharp and made everyone hurry. When his fine dark brows drew together. As he’d been all this morning, tense and sour.

Sometimes he raised his voice and it carried all the way to the corners of the storerooms like distant thunder. 

Sometimes he was quiet as a ghost.

And sometimes he was like this. His lips fixed in a smile. His hands quick and careless. The same way a man moves when he’s halfway into a bottle of champagne, too smooth and too loose. Restless. Reckless. The way a man moves when he’s about to charge into a battlefield, or has just staggered off one.

Bard grated the zest from the orange in silence and stirred it into the glossy gravy. He’d seen a lot of things in his life, nightmares enough to wake any old soldier. He’d seen men with minds broken by war and hardened by death.

But he wondered now what was on the butler’s mind to make him smile like this on a Monday evening, and Bard was almost afraid to imagine.

************

Ciel was sitting at his desk when he heard the bell ring at six o’clock, and he almost didn’t go down.

He didn’t want to. His day had been turned inside out, and he didn’t want to go down there. The long empty dining hall, and the bright distant fire that only made the room more bleak. The unbearable silence of his perfect servant moving like a cursed shadow behind his chair.

But these things were inevitable. The chime of six, and dinner. Sebastian’s mocking silence. 

And Ciel hadn’t done any work for the past two hours, anyway; he’d been sitting here at his desk, staring at the roaring hearth. Swallowing the demon’s taste in his mouth.

And if he didn’t go down now, when would it end? The demon would only come up and hunt for him. There was nowhere to hide.

Ciel went downstairs. He held his chin high. His hands tucked in his pockets felt like ice.

Mey-rin was assisting Sebastian, setting out the last of the silverware when Ciel entered the room.

The butler was waiting at the head of the table to push in his master’s chair. Poised, upright, his face as fine and polished and blank as one of the marble busts along the corridors upstairs.

Ciel watched him closely. Tensely. If the creature stepped out of bounds by so much as a hair-- Oh, the collar. The whip. He’d _show_ this thing. 

But Sebastian was quiet when he worked. Settling Ciel’s chair, unfolding the snowy napkin.

Quite obedient. 

No slyness. Not even a look. 

Not even a look, and Ciel frowned at the tumble of roasted vegetables on his plate.

Sebastian was ignoring him. Ciel knew it was some kind of punishment. Or maybe it was only the demon being careful, avoiding punishment himself, knowing he’d gone too far.

Sebastian didn’t look sorry, though. Only complacent.

Ciel wanted to stab him with his fork.

He ate his dinner slowly, unwillingly. Four bites; he wasn't hungry. He’d eaten too much chocolate today.

And Sebastian filled his wine glass with a cool splash of milk. Ground the pepper solicitously. Didn’t glance at his master once.

Ciel tucked his cold hand between his knees as he ate.

If this was punishment, he couldn’t tell who had the worst of it.

*************

It wasn’t a sulk.

Sebastian was quite sure of it, watching the boy staring blankly down at his plate.

The earl didn’t sulk. This was something else. This was how the boy managed things; retreating into silence, confused. A general retiring to his tent to gather his thoughts. There would be consequences for this afternoon’s activities; the demon had no doubt of it.

The earl would try to collar him again. Tonight or tomorrow. Tomorrow, likely; his master had already exhausted his lust this morning. And this afternoon too, unless Sebastian was quite mistaken. Which he wasn’t, of course; he’d known before he even left the ravished little earl in his study that the boy would be forced to pleasure himself as soon as he was left alone.

And that was the victory, wasn’t it? As much as the heat of the boy’s soft mouth around his cock, as much as his breathless body pinned under Sebastian’s hands, under his eyes: the earl had been as hard under such rough usage as he had when he’d fastened the collar around his servant’s neck.

And the earl would try that again.

Sebastian couldn’t even bring himself to care.

He followed his young master up the stairs after dinner, watching the flash of the boy’s pale slim legs in the evening gloom of the staircase.

He was never showy, this self-contained little thing; but the boy was upset. He wouldn’t be obvious about it. 

Probably wasn’t even capable of showing what he wanted; and the demon nearly sighed in amusement over the boy’s helplessness. It stirred him somehow. The same catch in his throat that snared him when one of the cats curled up on his knee. When he rolled it on its back. When it tensed, unhappy, feeling the stroke of his sharp nail down the fur of its soft belly, its paws twitching already, and the tip of its tail-- and then it would twist. Scratch. Shake itself out of his lap and dart back under the bed and be gone.

And he knew they didn’t like it on their backs. Few animals like it, turned upwards, vulnerable. But he always liked to see it. He liked the way they told him what they wanted and when they were tired of his caresses.

And he liked to gauge their limit, counting down their heartbeat as they coiled unwilling on his lap. Quite self-contained too, cats. Naturally noble little things. Proud, aloof, and he liked to let them pretend they were as strong as he was. As if he couldn’t break their necks between his fingers if he wished.

It was worth a scratch to play with them.

It was worth a collaring to watch the boy choke on his cock.

When he’d leaned over his master’s chair at the dinner table, Sebastian had caught the scent of his own body mingled with the boy’s. Subtle but unmistakable. It was like a fingerprint over clean glass, and he’d hardened as he breathed it in. When he saw his master raise his silver fork to those parted rosy lips, and the stickiness of the orange and pheasant gravy on his master’s mouth.

But the demon guarded his eyes. The boy would not see him watching, wouldn’t know how every one of those sullen small heartbeats fluttered in Sebastian’s ears.

And when he undressed his master on the bathmat, he didn’t look at all.

He felt his master’s gaze, though, following him. Waiting.

The earl would have to wait a little longer.

_And this is how we play, sir._

**************

‘Sebastian.’ 

Ciel managed to instil a certain frostiness into the word. 

The butler tilted his head as he finished dressing Ciel in his nightgown. ‘My lord.’

‘Bring me your collar.’

The butler stood up in silence, shaking out the bath towel. And he sighed, and bowed. ‘If you believe it is necessary, sir.’

Ciel bit his lip in fury. _Necessary._

But Sebastian was obeying him, was going to the study to fetch it from the desk drawer, and Ciel stood wriggling his bare toes at the fireside while he waited.

He half-expected the demon to draw it out in some way, to delay and cause trouble. But Sebastian was back before he could even grow impatient, and the heavy leather collar and lead was curled in the demon’s cupped hands like a crown when he held it out to his master.

‘Kneel,’ said Ciel. ‘Take off your tie.’

And Sebastian obeyed again, his face distant already. Undoing the silk knot of his tie. His frown was directed at the floor as Ciel fastened.

‘Does it please you to see me thus?’ The demon’s voice was wary. Curious. ‘Does it please you to play at collaring me, sir?’ 

Ciel didn’t answer. Of course it pleased him. He’d thought the demon understood.

Had Sebastian missed that, somewhere in this unspoken game? Had he missed that his master would require this sometimes?

The heavy buckle under his stumbling fingers. The intake of Sebastian’s breath, the tendons along the demon’s pale neck. The tilt of his chin, and his skin so smooth under Ciel’s hands. So warm. The lead trailing down the butler’s back and into his hand. He wrapped the braided leash around his wrist. Once, twice. He saw the edge of leather press into Sebastian’s throat.

He braced his feet on either side of the demon’s knees and shuffled up his nightgown. His cock was swelling already, a pale twitch at Sebastian’s chin.

‘Now,’ he said. ‘You may touch me.’

Sebastian used his mouth. Lapping quietly, his hands warm on Ciel’s thighs. Suckling slowly, and it was hard to stand still. There was nothing to hold on to. But if he did this lying down the demon would lean over him, his eyes hungry and his mouth hungry and his hands taking things Ciel couldn’t give him.

He needed to stand here, and needed to watch his servant’s head tucked down there, working between his legs. The gleam of the black waxed leather catching the firelight beside them.

The demon’s mouth was warm, enclosing the impatient shudder of his cock. His gloved hands light over Ciel’s hips. His chest. Sebastian was trying to push up his nightgown further, and Ciel shook his hands off.

‘Stop that.’ He didn’t want to be undressed. Not if the butler was going to be kneeling here in his tidy uniform-- he didn’t need to feel more exposed than this. Ciel had learnt that yesterday, spread on his own desk with his shirt pulled open. Smeared in the butler’s mess. 

He shivered. He was hard in Sebastian’s mouth. 

But it wasn’t enough. Sebastian was holding him quietly. Pleasing him obediently. The butler had been expecting this; he was prepared to pay this price for what he’d done.

And Ciel’s throat stung bitterly as he closed his eyes, rippling in the wet suck of Sebastian’s clever lips.

The demon was trying to move Ciel’s foot, his hand nudging at his ankle. 

Ciel glared down at him. He felt the demon’s sigh on his skin when Sebastian raised his head.

‘Here, sir.’ 

He tapped his thigh, and Ciel understood. He set his foot up there. And then Sebastian could reach in deeper, his tongue curling underneath, and Ciel couldn’t help his little sound.

But Sebastian’s hands lingered over his belly. The hot tip of his tongue flicked him. ‘I can’t reach you, my lord.’ Quietly. Reasonably. ‘Will you sit down?’

‘You don’t need anything else,’ Ciel said stiffly. 

Sebastian looked up at him, unblinking. ‘This is not for me, sir.’

Ciel swallowed, tasting his own discomfort. The demon did this to him. Suggesting things, and then if he took the prompt it was far too close to obedience. His legs were weak, though. He was flushed under the demon’s hands.

He held the leash tightly and plumped down on Sebastian’s knees. And jerked the leash again for good measure, watching the strain along the side of the demon’s long neck. Sebastian was watching him, his eyes a hostile smoulder.

‘Don’t look at me, dog.’

The demon’s gaze lowered, a frown at the floor. But his hand was still soft, smooth over Ciel’s thigh. Stroking up and down, the warm back of his gloved fingers. The tickle of the glove-seam. His other hand curled tight around Ciel’s cock.

Ciel moved against him. The cold buttons of the butler’s waistcoat, the grind against the watch-chain, the hard ache of the demon’s arousal caught between their bodies. 

Sebastian’s hand slid under Ciel’s shirt and up his back. Cupping the back of his neck and Ciel winced, trying to shake it off. It slid warm and firm back down his spine. All the way to his tailbone, and Ciel made a sound. Between his teeth, a moan. 

He flushed horribly.

But Sebastian had heard it, of course, nothing could be hidden from him, and his fingertip teased again. Warm at the tail of Ciel’s spine, nestling softly.

Ciel’s legs quivered. 

‘Ah,’ said the demon. ‘What’s this, sir?’ He bent closer, and Ciel shuddered at the breath in his ear. ‘I think you’re enjoying it.’ 

The touch was circling. A tickle on Ciel’s skin. His whole belly seemed to seize. It wasn’t even anything important, just his back, but he felt himself stiffen in Sebastian’s other hand.

‘I see.’ The demon’s low voice. ‘Perhaps the kitten needs to be scratched.’ 

Ciel’s throat ached.

‘Perhaps I should use my tongue.’

‘Stop that.’ Sharply.

‘Or perhaps it’s something else, after all--’

And Ciel felt Sebastian’s hand sliding down around his rump and tucking under and he tensed on the demon’s knees. He gripped the leash, the jacket.

‘I didn’t tell you to do th- _that_ -’

Stumbling over the word, the feel, the demon’s finger teasing him _there_ and this wasn’t right. He was spread on his servant’s lap and he should never have sat down like this.

But Sebastian drew his hand away again and Ciel relaxed, breathed out and settled onto the butler’s lap. Sebastian shifted too, as though he were restless. Ciel could see the swell of his servant’s arousal, uneasy under his weight.

Ciel glanced up. And the demon’s eyes were narrowed, fierce, and he was licking slowly at his finger, wetting it carefully. 

And then Sebastian’s hand was sliding back between his thighs. 

Ciel made a sound between his closed lips. And a part of him had been waiting for this. After the coach, and what he’d said in there. He’d been waiting for Sebastian to try it again. The demon had almost promised. Threatened.

And Ciel wished he didn’t want it quite this much.

But it tickled him, he ached, and it was so gentle. Such a soft taunt, the most delicate of Sebastian’s torments. The demon was pushing deeper, pressing inside him. Ciel clenched his body around the firm joint of Sebastian’s finger and it was sharp and hot and burned and he sputtered. Squeezed.

‘Clever,’ said the demon. ‘I do believe you know how to suck me here, too.’

Ciel choked. ‘Don’t.’ 

‘Mhm.’ Sebastian’s breath stirred his hair. ‘That’s not an order, though. Is it, sir?’

His other hand was moving slow and strong on Ciel’s cock, pumping in the same teasing rhythm as the fingertip inside him. 

‘This will be new, young master.’ The finger curled up inside him. ‘No, don’t tighten--’

Ciel grunted.

‘Here it is, sir,’ said the demon’s voice. A drip of sound at his cheek. ‘Here. So very tiny.’

The touch pressed strange and sudden. Ciel wanted to push against it but it felt swollen, the throb inside him, trembling pressure.

He hung his head down, shivering. He didn’t want to see Sebastian’s hands between his legs like this but he could see himself moving, the pulse of his upright cock. The sheen of fluid beading at the tip of it. 

His legs were shaking over Sebastian’s lap.

Sebastian’s hand curved up, and now it cupped beneath his cock. Rubbing into the softness there, and Ciel was made of fire. Made of water. The demon’s finger seemed to touch his entire body.

He ached. He was going to die.

‘Don’t. Don’t--’ It sounded like the plea it was.

‘Shall I stop, sir?’

It was blazing through him already. His belly was turning inside out.

‘I don’t think you want that, my lord. I think you like this. You are very close already. Aren’t you?’

And it filled Ciel, brimming, and he almost wanted to say it. As he had in the coach. As he did each time the demon brought him trembling to this precipice, this anguished haze of wanting. And this was the worst of all.

_Anything. I’ll give you anything. Everything._

He could never say that.

‘Don’t, I can’t--’

 _Everything._ He didn’t have to ask for it. 

The wave took him anyway, collapsing overhead. 

Trembling and burning and it rolled over him, and again, and again, and he wanted to cry. He wanted to scream. But his only noise was a moan, a high breath as he came in Sebastian’s palm. 

Held in the demon’s hands. Helpless again, hot under that terrible touch, and Ciel curled his hands into fists in Sebastian’s jacket.

The demon slid his finger out slowly. And the emptiness seemed to clench through Ciel’s body.

‘Well done, sir.’ The demon’s voice was quiet. ‘You took it very well.’ His sigh was like a drift of furnace heat through Ciel’s hair. ‘I do believe you might be ready for something else soon.’

There was a terrible sort of satisfaction in Sebastian’s tone. The leash twitched out of Ciel’s grasp as the demon unbuckled the dog-collar himself.

And Ciel was here again, wasn’t he? Settled over his servant’s knees. Sticky with his own ejaculate. Numb, trembling. Being cleaned up with Sebastian’s handkerchief as though he was a messy child. And it was bound around his chest like iron, his own life. This inevitability.

Sebastian would get what he wanted. Because he was very good at getting what he wanted. And Ciel could hardly tell any more what he wanted himself. 

He almost staggered in the dim space of the room between Sebastian’s lap and his waiting bed.

‘Good night, sir.’ Smooth and light.

Then the door was shut, and Ciel was alone. With his body still heavy and hot and hollow. 

And he knew already that his sleep would bring as little relief as the demon’s pretence of deference.

**************

Then it was Tuesday. Ugh. 

Tuesday, and a day had never felt so long.

Ciel watched Sebastian with a hard stare, wondering how he did it. Was it some demonic magic in the way he spun these minutes, these hours?

Tea. Toast. Eggs. 

Clothing; and there was a tangle in Ciel’s hair. He pressed his eyes closed when Sebastian tilted his head forward to comb it.

Lessons; geography, politics. Dull as dull. He didn’t want to be there. French. And even Sebastian’s dictatorial teaching style would be better than Mrs Rodkin’s dry mincing voice. Ciel’s mind was blunt, stumbling. As though he’d been balancing on a high-wire too long and had forgotten how to walk. One step in front of the other. 

Lunch, and the butler wouldn’t look at him: Sebastian was brief and polite when he served Ciel’s dish of parsnip soup.

Then tax reports. Shipping news.

And Ciel felt he knew every moment as well as he knew his lessons-- every sound. The creak of his study door opening. The small familiar noises of tea-pot and porcelain.

The drag of his chair on the dining room floor at dinner.

But Sebastian wouldn’t look at him. Wouldn’t speak to him, and it made no sense. 

Not even when Ciel undressed for his bath. 

And Ciel watched the soapy ripples of the water around his knees. And felt as though he was quite alone in the room.

Sebastian had never shown such forbearance.

To needle him, to twist every one of his master’s words and thoughts and actions for days and weeks. To hold him down and threaten him and humiliate him and then _nothing._

It should have been a relief. But Ciel felt as though there was no air to breathe.

He thought about it in the silence of Sebastian's wake, once he was dried and dressed and the candelabra was carried out, and the room was empty. Emptier. Sometimes the demon seemed to take up no more room than a trail of smoke.

Ciel curled up between the soft sheets and brushed his cock with cold fingertips. He hated this. Hated needing this. It was his own body. His own skin, and the thought of the demon had no right to make him burn like this.

Ciel closed his eyes. He would never be free of it. As long as the creature could taunt him with its eyes, its voice, it held him in its power. Sebastian wanted him, wanted more from him. Wanted to fuck him. The thing had said so with its own disgusting mouth. 

And this would be easier if Ciel wasn’t wondering how that would feel.

He knew what Sebastian’s finger felt like. Long and hot and wriggling inside him. 

Ciel had to bite his fist not to scream. 

He rolled against his pillow, and his legs were shuddering. Did he dare?

He bit down harder on the back of his hand. And let go of the twitch in his damp hand, and let his fingers trail below. He’d never touched here. Touched this. The soft tumble of flesh tucked under his cock, or further down--

He tipped up his hips, and reached. And perhaps it was better if he tried the other way.

Sliding down his tail-bone, as Sebastian had, a curve over his behind, and he closed his eyes.

Ah. Just there. 

His fingers shook but he breathed in, breathed out, pressed his fingertip to the strange tight pucker and tried. Uneasy. And it stung, but slipped inside.

Ah, _there._ Ah, and Sebastian had done it like _this._

Tight, strange around his finger. Hot. Is this how it felt for Sebastian? He bit his lip, and it stung. The stretch. But it was good. Full. He couldn’t move. His mind trembled like a brimming glass.

Did Sebastian like the feel of him, inside?

And was he going to allow the demon to take him in here? 

And that was too much. Too much, and Ciel whimpered, biting down, felt the drizzle of his own issue as he spilled over his tucked-up thighs. His cock was shaking. He hadn’t even been touching it.

And his body was shivering inside, he could feel it suddenly tight and squeezing, and he wanted to pull his finger out but it hurt. He had to wait. He was breathing hard, he heard it rasping, and then he was cold down his whole spine and his finger eased out.

Ah. Like that _._ He lay still, breathing. And if Sebastian--

It was too much to think. He lay still, curling his hand around the softening tremble of his spent cock. But he _wanted_ to think. If he did. That heavy thing pushing inside him.

 _Sebastian_. 

He tried not to moan.

If the demon didn’t do something, Ciel would end up _asking._

Sebastian did this. With the cake. With the chocolate. A small thing could become another of his weapons; and it was infuriating. The beast picked up a table-knife and it became a murder weapon. He picked up a word and it became an instrument of torture. He twisted everything to his own end, and that was his cleverness.

Because he was clever. Oh yes. Ciel admitted it unhappily. The household ran on Sebastian’s cleverness. They were all pieces on the chessboard, and this is how a servant works-- times and schedules and clockwork, and Ciel was a piece in his machinery. It was efficient this way. 

But sometimes it was hard to recall whose chessboard it was. Whose house. Whose bed. 

Even Sebastian’s words could keep him sleepless.

If this was chess, they were in the empty endgame. The sparse ruins, one of the disastrous fields of play that Prince Soma was always left with: the same moves, the same failures, a lone king skulking around the edges of his world, chased down by a relentless Queen. A pitiless Knight. 

Ciel bit his lip. He’d be cornered. He was cornered already. The demon’s self-satisfaction tonight. Sebastian had made it very clear what he wanted, but he was taking his time, and that was odd in itself-- this creature was not usually so patient. It must be very sure of itself.

If Ciel didn’t pick up a weapon of his own, the demon would have him in pieces. And he might even be driven to ask for it.

 _Everything._ He’d said it in the coach. And this was what he wanted, too. Wasn’t it? And Sebastian was so sure of himself that he wasn’t even in a hurry; he already knew what he was going to do.

So did Ciel.

He opened his eyes wide in the empty darkness. 

It was exactly like watching Soma’s chess games. He could see it laid out: the moves, the patterns. 

And this time it was Sebastian who was being predictable. 

It was _exactly_ like the chocolate-- the demon would keep him pinned like this, waiting under pressure until he did something silly. But the demon had made a mistake. He’d tried the same trick too many times. He was taking efficiency over innovation. He was being lazy, and oh, Ciel could _see_ it. 

Sebastian was only dangerous when he was being unpredictable.

And the only possible counter-move was an attack.

Ciel’s favourite chess move was double envelopment. A pincer movement. Attack from left and right, distraction on both sides, and an empty channel for escape down the middle-- but there is no escape. The enemy is drawn into a trap. Because under pressure, when surrounded fully, even a coward might fight like a lion. If you show them an exit, though-- the army will break ranks. They run for cover. Their discipline fails, and they mistake a trap for salvation.

Double envelopment. Keep them busy on the left and the right.

Ciel shivered. His hands felt like ice, a shiver on the heat between his legs. He’d been through this. He already knew what he wanted. He’d thought it over, and he’d made a decision, hadn’t he? The demon belonged to him. He could claim it with the same finality that it regarded him.

The way Sebastian had looked at him yesterday. The demon's warm hand moving over his chest, the heat of its body between his spread knees--

The glistening head of its naked cock.

Ciel imagined if he let the creature close to him. If he folded under the weight of his own weakness and permitted it here in his bed--it would look at him in just that way, its teeth sharp behind a beautiful empty smile, and only its eyes would be alive. Devouring him. Unbearable. Its mockery. 

Unless he told it to look away, as he had last night. And that was the only way he could do this. If he took what he wanted.

Hector’s wife, astride her _horse_ \--

Ciel could hardly breathe.

The beast deserved nothing less. Sebastian had said it, hadn’t he. About horse-riding. _The hips of a whore._

Ciel rubbed his knees together beneath the covers, feeling the slow beat of his arousal under his hands. A second pulse. As strong as his heart. As tremulous. 

As furious.

  
  


***********

Sebastian had brought the tea-things back down from his master’s bedroom the next morning and was in the middle of rubbing butter into flour for shortbread when Finny came to find him.

‘Mr Sebastian.’ The gardener was hovering at the open kitchen door, wreathed in his own steaming breath. The clean air outside was frosty.

‘Finny.’ The demon sighed. ‘What’s the matter?’

‘I was trimming the hedges in the maze, but now they’re bare.’ Sebastian didn’t have to turn his head to know the boy was shifting uncomfortably on his feet. ‘But they’ll grow back, won’t they? Like the other trees that lose their leaves.’

Sebastian dusted flour from his fingertips. ‘Being deciduous is quite different from being mercilessly over-pruned, Finny. In the same way that growing one’s hair is not the same as recovering from decapitation.’

‘Right,’ said Finny uncertainly. ‘But you grew those flowers again, when I cut off all the--’

‘Don’t compare me to anybody else,’ said Sebastian. ‘That’s not a clever thing to do. Now, have you killed the plants or not?’

‘Not,’ said Finny firmly. ‘There’s plenty of branches left on them. On some of them.’

Which wasn’t very reassuring, so Sebastian washed his hands off irritably. ‘I’ll come and see, shall I?’ Really, if this fair-headed fool was going to destroy the garden only a few days before the manor received its guests--

But the bell was ringing upstairs, and Bard leaned around from the staff kitchen to wave his hand.

‘You go up,’ he called. ‘I’ll go and inspect the damage with Mister Finnian here.’

Sebastian went.

He didn’t expect it to be good news. The boy had been almost silent this morning. All through his breakfast. Unresponsive. And the demon was pointedly aware that he hadn’t yet been punished; that was yet to come. Last night had not been a win for the earl, not at all, not even with the collar-- that one had been Sebastian’s victory. 

Bringing the sulky little thing to a whimpering climax with one finger; ah. Finding the secret heat of his body and stirring it. The boy really was playing on the wrong game-board. He wouldn’t forgive Sebastian for that.

And now the young master was supposed to be reviewing his history lessons, but had probably spent his morning breaking all the Sevres statuettes in the yellow drawing room. Or perhaps the brat was planning to walk his dog around the garden on that infernal fucking leash.

But when Sebastian entered the study, the boy was busy at his desk. Scribbling away, with a smudge of blue ink at the tip of his nose. Sebastian resisted the urge to lick his thumb and rub it off. Or lick his master’s pretty little nose directly. 

‘What is on the menu for lunch?’ The boy didn’t even glance up.

‘Leek and lemon thyme quiche, my lord.’ But Sebastian was fairly sure this wasn’t what his master wanted to know. There was no other question, though. No look.

‘Bring me some tea.’ 

‘Of course.’ That much was predictable. 

‘You’re busy.’ Flatly. 

Sebastian looked at his master, managing to mask his surprise. The earl never showed an interest in the servant’s household duties; as long as his meals were on time, he didn’t bother himself.

‘Things are being managed,’ he said. Perhaps the earl was accusing him of inefficiency. ‘It is simply a busy time of day in the kitchen.’

‘It’s nowhere near dinner,’ the boy said. Still flatly, as though he wasn’t very interested. But he was commenting.

Sebastian looked at him keenly. ‘A daube of beef must simmer for three hours, young master.’

‘Mhm,’ said the boy, and the conversation was over.

Sebastian frowned over it as he made his way back down to the kitchen.

The earl’s games were never innocent. His master was watching him too carefully. Planning something. It would be something to do with his meals, likely; the brat would demand a change of menu and order something else at the very last minute. Chicken instead of beef. Or pretend to find fault with it as he had the other day, and ask for one of those milk-sop infant meals, rice pudding or baked custard.

No matter. Sebastian was smiling again before he reached the kitchen. He knew how this would end, as clearly as if he’d already seen it. Coiled like the film of a cinematic record, a spool of fate: his master would protest, and make a show of childish self-assertion. Sebastian would make a show of penitence. Or not, depending on his mood; it might call for something sharper.

Either way, the boy would tire himself out in his fit of temper, and he would have nothing in reserve when Sebastian took his little body onto his lap again. And held him carefully, and closely, and teased him to the verge of tears with his fingers. 

And then the boy would beg for it. Sebastian would oblige. 

Tonight, or tomorrow; and the demon tied on his apron with some satisfaction.

He’d fuck his master on the bedroom floor. And there would be no more talk of collars, because the boy would know who was master in this house.

**********

Lunch was acceptable. Ciel scarcely touched it. How could he eat with this knot in his stomach?

An hour after lunch; he’d been counting the minutes. An hour after lunch he made his way to the library and rang the bell. Seated himself in his seat at the fireside. Crossed his legs.

And it was only another kind of calculation.

The butler was only a few moments behind his summons; the velvet rope of the bell-pull hadn’t even stopped swinging yet. Which meant Sebastian had no time to spare.

‘You rang, my lord.’ The butler was bowing. With a questioning note, the bastard, as if he couldn’t hear the bell from halfway across the house. As if he couldn’t hear the mice in the walls, or a dog barking halfway to London.

‘Of course. You weren’t busy, were you?’

The demon’s face was sharp. ‘No, sir.’ He gave a quick and thoroughly blank smile. ‘I am in the middle of clarifying beef stock. Mey-rin has misplaced the key to the silverware dresser. There is a cake due out of the oven in twelve minutes. I am not busy in the slightest.’

‘Glad to hear it,’ Ciel said. He’d timed that rather well; he’d never managed to calculate the butler’s schedule so accurately. ‘This won’t take very long.’

He steepled his fingers on his chest, aligning them carefully, and it was stupid, really, how it hurt. His chest. He could scarcely keep himself from shaking.

Was it supposed to be like this?

‘Your afternoon tea isn’t due for two hours, my lord.’ Sebastian was almost on his tip-toes, poised to go. ‘I will be up again at three.’

‘No,’ said Ciel. ‘You will stay.’ _Before I change my mind._

The butler’s face was creased in something like irritation. ‘If this is about your lunch, I must ask that you wait. One piece of cake is assuredly enough, sir.’

‘It isn’t,’ said Ciel. He kept his voice steady. ‘It isn’t about cake. Lie down on the floor.’

Sebastian’s dark eyes were suddenly hard as stones. ‘Sir.’

‘You heard me.’

‘Now?’ The butler didn’t move, his hands still tucked behind his back.

‘Yes, now,’ said Ciel. ‘Unless you want the cake to burn.’

‘I see,’ said Sebastian. And he was trying to. His eyes were blank and dark but somewhere underneath he was thinking. ‘No collar.’

And it was hard to tell if it was an order or an observation.

It didn’t even matter. Ciel shrugged. ‘No collar,’ he said. ‘I don’t need the collar. It was never about the collar. Take your gloves off and lie down.’

‘Sir,’ Sebastian said. His voice was low and tight. ‘I am well accustomed to my lord’s whims, but the timing for such a request is slightly questionable, sir.’

‘Not questionable,’ said Ciel, and he laced his fingers in a strong grip over his knee. ‘Not a whim. Not a request, either.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian hadn’t moved. ‘In that case--’ He paused. Something seemed to sit bare and cold on his face. ‘It would be preferable if I were not required to remove my gloves before a mortal.’

The demon had never admitted such a thing before. To admit was to reveal. Which meant Sebastian already knew he didn't have a choice; this was only a last protest. 

Ciel’s blood felt like quicksilver. ‘Take them off. I’m not asking you to undress.’ He pushed back his chair and stood abruptly. ‘You need only unbutton your trousers. That’s all I want, anyhow.’ 

Sebastian stood in utter silence. And then something shifted across his face, and it was the most terrible thing Ciel had ever seen. His dark eyes were clear. Poisonously bright as he pulled off his gloves and let them drop. One; two. 

And then he looked away. ‘As you please, my lord.’ His mouth twitched. ‘On the floor?’

‘Exactly where you are. Here. You will close your eyes,’ Ciel said. ‘You will not move or speak. Understood?’

‘Understood.’ Tersely.

Sebastian stretched himself out at full length on the rug. His bare hands looked thin and bone-white on the warm red of the Axminster wool.

And Ciel was undoing his own shorts. He was getting better at this. Buttons. Out of the corner of his eyes he could see Sebastian doing the same thing, and he wondered if the demon realised yet what his master meant to do.

He must. If he’d looked back at Ciel like that.

And then Ciel was kicking off his shorts, and looking down at his servant’s body spread on the ground. 

He settled himself across the demon’s hips. His knees rested on the rug on either side but his legs were spread wider than he would have liked, worse than horseback. He glanced up and caught the glitter beneath Sebastian’s lashes.

‘Close your eyes,’ he said shortly.

‘My lord.’ Quietly. The demon obeyed. His forehead was creased sharply.

Ciel reached for the long flies of Sebastian’s trousers, seven thin flat silver buttons under the fold of black wool. And pulled them open, and the demon’s cock was tucked down inside. Not as fierce as yesterday when it had spilt over Ciel’s bare chest, not as hard. But as dark, as thick, nestled between fabric and thigh.

Ciel touched it lightly. A bump of his knuckles. And it pulsed against his touch, stirring, and his throat stung hotly.

Sebastian was quiet. But resisting, tense. Ciel looked down at his servant’s fine bare hands. The frown between the closed eyes.

Ciel shuffled closer, and ran his hand down the long warm shiver of Sebastian’s cock. It was certainly stiffer already. So was his own arousal, tight and uneasy, and Ciel moved himself against the demon. Hard as polished glass between his legs, and it hurt. It pressed the soft flesh beneath his shaft. 

He raised himself up properly and took the beastly thing in his hand. His fingertips just met, thumb to finger, and he tried not to look at it. 

And then. And _then_ , but Ciel was shivering already, and if he stopped to think he’d never dare again.

He knew what he was doing. He’d seen it in the book.

He guided the warm tip between his thighs and curled his body up, the same curl of his hips when he hooked his heels down in the stirrups. He found the place, the ache. 

The warm head of the demon’s cock was firm when he pressed it in. 

As hard as Sebastian’s finger had been. But this was worse, this stung and stretched and he couldn’t breathe. Like the moment when you drag a splinter from your skin, resisting every instinct to gasp--

He felt it slide deeper.

He clenched his teeth and this was utterly stupid, it wasn’t going to work. He couldn’t move and if he stopped--if he let Sebastian _leave_ \--the demon would look at him. Those contemptuous eyes. And it would be worse than this.

He’d wanted this. It was exactly what he’d wanted. Of course it was.

Ciel rocked slowly. A fractional shift of his hips and it blazed through his spine. The back of his knees were damp. It was wrong, wrong, and he didn't want to tighten his body again but he couldn't help it. He was pushed full of Sebastian's cock and his own arousal was bright and pink and stiff. Protesting. A need that filled his skin.

He balanced himself on his knees to touch himself. Squeezing, and it was sharp and sudden through him, the shudder of pleasure. It was better when he could tend to himself as well.

And it hurt no more than everything else, in the end. And he could stop if he wanted to. This was his pain, and his demon, and this creature could glare all it wanted but it wasn’t in control of _this_. Ciel could almost pretend it wasn't happening. He bear it as long as the demon couldn’t. Even if his tongue tasted like blood now. He'd bitten it.

Ciel swallowed sourly.

Sebastian’s hands were curled tight at his sides. His dark-tipped thumbs were tucked within his fists.

Ciel halted, his knees clenched, and breathed. And again. And tried to move, but the burn was too much and he gritted his teeth. He had to balance on both his hands again. He needed to collapse but he couldn’t sink down on the heavy thing inside him. He looked at his whitened fingers spread on the butler’s waistcoat, and then higher, at Sebastian’s closed face. The demon’s thin mouth was tightly set. 

Ciel almost wanted to bite him. And that was something the demon would do, and Ciel wondered if he should be afraid. Of what he wanted. Of what Sebastian made him want.

And beneath his hands the demon’s chest rose and fell, a little too fast, too shallow.

Ciel saw the flicker of the demon’s lashes and the pale lips moved soundlessly. And tightened into a hard line.

‘What was that?’ Ciel leaned forward, breathless.

‘Nothing, sir.’ Sebastian’s voice was a whisper.

‘No lies.’ Ciel pressed his shivering knees against his servant’s hips, holding himself steady. ‘You spoke.’

‘I said, sir--’ with sudden crispness, and Sebastian’s eyes opened. Hot, dark. Bottomless. ‘You’re being a little prick.’

Ciel gasped at the word and the pulse inside him. ‘Hold still,’ he said, a croak in his throat, although the demon hadn’t moved. Not his body. Ciel rocked again carefully, but Sebastian’s eyes were half-open, damp-lashed. 

‘Brat,’ whispered the demon. A breath. ‘ _Wretched_ brat.’

‘Shut up.’ Ciel winced, shaking. It was unbearably hot inside him. 

‘Arrogant toddler _\--_ ’ 

‘Enough.’ It stung. He was aching. He curled his fingers into the butler’s waistcoat.

‘Vexatious bitch--’

‘I’ll hit you.’

‘Presumptuous little-- _nhn_ \-- inbred offspring of a fen-sucked dog-fucker--’

‘I hate you,’ whispered Ciel. ‘I hate you.’ 

‘Whore,’ said Sebastian. ‘Nhhn --’ 

Ciel braced himself, settling deeper on the quiver inside him. 

Sebastian’s sharp hiss, broken. ‘ _Cunt_.’

Ciel cried out. His shudder flung a trail of wet across the butler’s black jacket. And his eyes stung, his whole body burned, and the sound he was making was nearly a sob as he seized up, panting, trying not to move.

The demon’s face was white. As clear and sharp as any blade. Incandescent, the white heart of a flame.

But Ciel had always known he was reaching into the fire.

He gritted his teeth. He knelt up carefully, easing himself off the sting of the demon’s shaft, trying not to bite his lip or make a sound. The demon was watching him. He knew it.

His cold hands felt stiff as he knelt on the woollen rug and reached for his shorts. And winced. For the pain, and the demon’s gaze. He risked a glance.

The demon’s cock still arched raw and flushed against his dribbled waistcoat. 

Ciel looked back down at his buttons as he did them slowly. Clumsily, and stopped to wipe his damp palms against his knees. 

‘Well, then.’ Sebastian’s face was set coldly, tipped up towards the ceiling. His half-closed eyes were bright. But his voice was dangerously soft. ‘Did you get what you wanted, my lord?’

‘Yes,’ Ciel said. And in some ways it was true. His gaze moved to the demon’s arousal. ‘I don’t believe the same can be said for you.’

‘Apparently not,’ said Sebastian, and closed his eyes again.

Ciel clambered to his feet. He half-stumbled. He held onto the edge of the ebony side-table and steadied himself. 

He was going to be sick.

‘Get up,’ he said. ‘Go back to work. I’m tired of the sight of you.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Sebastian was raising himself on one elbow. Sitting up slowly, pulling on his gloves. And then standing to rearrange his uniform. 

Ciel watched Sebastian try to button himself. The edges of the black wool trousers tugged over his arousal, the strain of cloth, and the nervous twitch of Sebastian’s quick fingers trying to tuck the thing inside. 

The utter emptiness of the beast’s fine face, an empty mirror. Straightening his tie. 

‘Your dinner will be ready at six o’clock, my lord.’

Sebastian’s voice was light and clean, as fresh as though his mouth had never spat obscenities, had never touched his master’s body. 

‘I have made you a vanilla milk blancmange, sir.’

As though it had never torn him to pieces with a word. 

_Just go._ But Ciel couldn’t even make a sound.

The demon’s face was bright and beautiful as he left the room; only a mirror. Clean as glass, and just as hard. 

If he was a mirror, that would mean Ciel was looking at himself after all. And perhaps he was. The stiffness of the butler’s back, the poise of his head. A picture of propriety. Where had the monster learned these things?

They were only mimicking each other.

Ciel held tight to the edge of the ebony table as the library door closed with a click.

And he closed his eyes. 

There was a buzz behind them. 

It was better not to see.

  
  



	14. secundum {following}

March is always miserable.

Ciel sighed into his folded arms, and he felt the heat of his damp breath soak through his coat sleeve. His shirt-sleeve. His skin.

He was sitting down in the empty garden on the steps behind the water-fountains which stood half-frozen, silent. Their carved cherubs were slick with moss. 

The stone was cold through his shorts, like sitting on ice. Everything was damp, the grass along the pathway and the bare branches and the step under him. He should have brought his top-coat. But it was heavy and unwieldy, the big caped wool thing, and his fingers would never manage the soft bulk of the fabric or the stiff buttons. He’d never manage without help. He wouldn’t ask for help. 

There was nothing wrong; this spring weather is always miserable.

Ciel sniffed sharply. His nose was prickling uncomfortably.

There were a few wet leaves trodden into the red bricks at his feet. Bruised and red themselves. Pressed by boots and rain and time, almost dissolved into the pathway.

It would be nice to dissolve. To disappear.

Ciel could hear steps on the pathway. He tensed but didn’t raise his head.

‘Young master.’ Finnian’s voice was high with surprise. ‘It’s nearly lunchtime. What are you doing out here?’

‘Hmph.’ Ciel didn’t raise his head. 

_Hiding._ Was that the answer? As if there was anywhere the beast wouldn’t find him. 

_Thinking_. About its anger, its fierce eyes. The contemptuous sting of its words across his body. And inside it.

 _Trying not to think_. Yes. 

He looked back at the sodden leaves, the mossy pathway.

Finny hadn’t moved. ‘Aren’t you cold? How long have you been out here?’

_An hour. I think. Since I came down from the library after--_

_No, I’m not cold._

Ciel’s teeth were chattering his chin against his folded arms when he glanced up briefly. ‘What about you?’ he asked. ‘You’re not even wearing a jacket.’

Finny smiled, a bright flash. He was only wearing his work-clothes, same as ever, his linen shirt and sturdy tweed trousers. ‘I can’t feel a thing,’ he said. ‘This is nothing-- the water jug was frozen over this morning when I washed my face. I had to come out here early and fix things up, you know. I cut too much off the hedges.’

No surprises there.

‘I asked Mr Sebastian and he said they should come good again when the leaves all grow back. Once it’s proper spring.’

Ciel listened. His gaze was fixed on his boot-toes, on the wet path. He let Finny’s words wash over him like a distant rain-shower.

‘They’re lindens, that’s what the book said.’ The gardener was pointing at the leafless square-cut hedge. ‘They’re pleached. That’s what they call it when we grow them all boxy like that and have to trim them. Pleached lindens.’ Finny smiled again. ‘Pleached lindens, isn’t that the most wonderful thing to say?’

Ciel sniffled into his cuff. ‘You’ve been busy.’

‘Oh, well.’ Finny shrugged, and waved with his shears at the garden behind him. ‘We’ve got visitors next week and Mr Sebastian said we all have to work hard. He’s got a whole list in the kitchen and he reads it to us.’

‘Yes,’ Ciel said quietly. ‘We are very lucky, aren’t we? A marvel of a butler.’

He looked up at Finny. And he didn’t know what expression was on his face, but Finny’s eyes were suddenly wide and sapphire-bright and he dropped his pruning shears clattering on the red-brick path.

‘Young master,’ he said. ‘Oh, you’re hurt--’

Ciel winced. The gardener’s arms were tight around his neck.

‘No, I’m bloody fine--’

Finny scuffled on the step beside him but didn’t loosen his embrace.

‘You’ve been crying.’ 

‘No,’ said Ciel into Finny’s sleeve. ‘Don’t be stupid.’ But it was cold out here, and of course his nose would be red and wet. Of course his eyes would be pink. This wind.

‘Is there something wrong? If something’s wrong you have to tell me. Can I help?’

Ciel didn’t even answer. He felt Finny’s hand on his back, a clumsy pat. Strong enough to pull out a young tree by the roots, this summer-blond boy who was only a sprig of a tree himself. But he couldn’t help.

‘I can ask Mr Tanaka. I can ask Mr Sebastian. Do you need--’

‘No,’ said Ciel. ‘I don’t.’

‘Alright.’ Cautiously. ‘There’s something wrong, though.’ Finny’s knee bumped against his own. 

Ciel closed his eyes. How different Finny was. Strong, but not like Sebastian was strong-- this was rough as the wind. Not like Sebastian, like a knife so sharp you didn’t even realise you were bleeding.

Finny’s linen shirt smelled like hay. He squeezed too tight and breathed too loud and it wasn’t as bad as Ciel had expected.

He was very warm.

Ciel’s head felt heavy. He let it rest on Finny’s shoulder, and for a moment they listened to the gust of wind through the leafless linden trees.

Then he sighed. ‘Alright,’ he said drily. Muffled into Finny’s shoulder. ‘I’m fine, you can let me go.’

He felt Finny squeeze him once more before the gardener sat back. 

‘Are you sure?’ Finny was patting down his pockets. ‘I think I have a hanky in my--’

‘No,’ said Ciel. He wiped his nose with his ruffled shirt-cuff. ‘I’m fine. Truly. You probably have work to do.’

Finny didn’t take the hint, though. He was shaking his head. ‘You shouldn’t be out here in the garden all alone.’

Ciel’s first thought was to say _I’m not alone._ He never was, really. The demon was never more than a word away. As ever-present as a shadow, like a shadow that stretched halfway around the world.

But that wasn’t the same. 

And then Ciel wanted to say _I’m always alone._

He wasn’t looking for anybody’s pity, though. 

‘I’ll have to go back inside soon,’ he said. He shivered.

Finny tilted up his face towards the grey and cloud-blown sky. ‘You had the right idea, young master. You needed some fresh air.’ He smiled and closed his eyes, and the wind scattered his sun-coloured hair across his face. ‘It’s not right to be inside all the time.’ 

When he looked back at Ciel, his bright face had an uncustomary seriousness. ‘Don’t you get tired of it? Being stuck in the house? I can’t stand it.’ He picked up his shears and tucked them under his arm. ‘I’d rather be outside, rain or shine or snow, even. Wouldn’t you? It’s like a prison, being inside.’

Like a prison, yes. Like a cage. But it wasn't the house that was the cage. It wasn’t even the Phantomhive ring that bit icily into Ciel’s skin. It was something else. It was an ache in his marked eye. In his head, in his chest.

‘You need a cup of tea, young master.’ Finny grinned. ‘And sit where it’s quiet and warm. There’s not much of that out here, though, you’re better off in the conservatory where all the nice flowers are. It’s warm in there.’

Finny didn’t know anything, of course. He couldn’t even imagine the mire of Ciel’s responsibilities. His thoughts and fears and nightmares. But Ciel watched the gardener’s white linen shirt disappear behind the dark winter hedges, and he bit his numb lips. 

He had to get up eventually, and he did. His bare knees were stiff. He turned back to the looming grey of his house, and its long shadow over the sleeping rose garden.

Finny didn’t know anything, but sometimes it seemed like he knew more than all of them.

*****************

‘What’s the young master done now?’ Bard’s sigh was gusty. ‘Did he want more biscuits?’

Sebastian didn’t look around. ‘No.’ He dropped his knife and swept the minced pork-fat into a glistening heap in the bowl. 

‘I just thought something was the matter is all.’ 

‘No,’ said Sebastian again. No. Nothing. The young master hadn’t broken anything at all. And he’d only had one demand.

 _Lie down._ Of all the pernicious little pieces of utter shite--

The demon picked up his knife again. Dicing, a quick glide of his blade. Helfting it through the slab of fat.

He’d been treated worse, of course. By other masters. And even enjoyed it. There had been things, once. Another form, another age. Nails in his flesh. Knotted lashes dragging down his back. Scorpions on his skin. But this was different, and how maddening that he couldn’t even find the reason why.

It had almost been exactly what he wanted. 

His master’s body. The tense little hands pressed into Sebastian’s chest. The heat of those bare legs, the uneasy settle of the boy’s soft rump. And when he’d pushed himself down onto Sebastian’s cock--

The demon closed his eyes and leaned against the cold marble bench.

This boy. He’d been so imperious. So cold. And was _that_ it, his sense of entitlement? As though this were perfectly reasonable. To order his servant to lie down on the library floor, and fuck himself silently. As though his own little cock hadn’t been bright and stiff as a flag as he tried to possess his demon’s body.

It was scarcely even a consolation to have made the boy spill over; that much was almost predictable, the silly small thing hadn’t the slightest self-control. He chased his pleasure like a cat after a butterfly. No, more than that: he held out his hand for it, demanding. He couldn’t deny himself. Couldn’t tease himself on the edge of satisfaction, where the sharp need only deepened the eventual release; he was too quick. Too blunt. Or else why would he do such a thing? 

The boy hadn’t even managed to take more than the head. The width of it had been more than enough for him. It must have hurt him, Sebastian had smelled the pain-- the sharp ammoniac scent on his master’s skin. 

And it had been painful enough for Sebastian, too, the sharp drag of that tight hole over the delicate head of his cock. The slow liquid dripping of his frustration still not enough to ease the harsh squeeze within the boy’s heat.

Oh, the idiocy.

The idiocy. Courage. Arrogance. 

‘Oi.’ Bard was still watching him, his eyes wide. Frowning. ‘You alright?’ The man’s voice was slow with concern. ‘You’ve been worried this week. I know we’re not the best at this, dinner parties and everything, but we can manage. If you need me to do anything else, I can give it a try. Finny’s mostly finished the gardens but if you want somebody to work on--’

‘The master’s dinner party is the least of my concerns.’ Sebastian said it sharply. And honestly, too.

‘Nobody can blame you if you take a break.’ The man shook his head. ‘You work harder than any of us. Go on, I can finish up here.’

Sebastian looked down at the plump waxen slab pork fat, firm and snowy. The sheen of grease over his knife.

 _Go on._ Go where? There wasn’t any point. Upstairs? To his bare quarters and the scent of dust and oak, the creak of the floorboards in the wind. To bite his tongue until it bled and fuck his own fist bitterly. 

He didn’t have time. It was only self-pity. There’d be time enough for that when the house was silent.

‘I’m fine,’ he said. ‘I’m sure whatever was bothering the young master is quite finished with.’

But Sebastian already knew. 

He’d been baffled. Forestalled. It was already over.

And it was only the beginning.

The earl didn’t call for tea that morning. 

He went out into the garden, though; the demon heard him. Could smell him. Stopped in the middle of starching the linen to raise his head and listen to the small wooden heels on the front steps. The gravel driveway, the garden paths. 

He’d been talking to Finny but Sebastian had barely been able to catch it, not with Mey-rin asking him about the difference between Belgian damask and Irish linen, and by the time there was blessed silence again, the earl had been on his way back inside. 

Sebastian didn’t see his master until lunch-time.

So very proper, the boy seating himself at the head of the vast empty dining table. His pointed chin held high. His pale cheeks still flushed from the chill wind outside. 

Sebastian filled the waiting glass, and ladled the broth.

Had the earl planned it? For how long?

Because the boy wasn’t impulsive. He weighed things, tested them. By the time an action showed it was set firmly in his mind already. Which only made it all the worse that Sebastian hadn’t seen it coming.

Oh, this boy. Demanding a clean soup spoon. Asking, in that clean high voice, _and have you dusted all the chandeliers? The crystal ones? In the ballroom too?_

The demon served the poached trout, and poured the tarragon sauce. He answered the questions.

He didn’t have a plan, himself. 

He had tried that and been preempted. And he’d tried impulse, and for a short time it had even worked; the boy had taken his cock, hadn’t he? Unwillingly in his mouth. 

But the young master was wary, now.

This blade would be easier to swallow if there was even the slightest doubt in the earl’s voice. In his manner and his gaze. But there wasn’t.

The boy seemed satisfied with his actions; undaunted. Unashamed. 

And that was what Sebastian had wanted to know.

Not quite _unaffected_ , though-- his master’s small hands were white-knuckled when he stood up from his chair. Sebastian knew his master was uncomfortable. Physically, if not mentally. 

Morally? Sebastian wondered as he went back down to the kitchen. To the kitchen, and the work, and the endless day. 

And how he wished he could ask the question.

_You fucked an unholy demon, sir. How did it make you feel?_

If things had been different he might have been able to ask him in the library afterwards. If he’d held the little thing tucked warm against him and licked that soft chin. _How did it make you feel?_

Things hadn’t been different. The earl had made sure of it.

And Sebastian had been willing to be gentle with him, too.

There was no satisfaction.

Only a shadow of it, later. 

Much later, a taste at bath-time-- the boy’s undressing, of course, he’d never tire of that-- and if he was lucky, the little grunt of pleasure when the boy dipped his chilled toes into his waiting bath. 

But it was a different sound tonight. Muffled. And Sebastian saw the tension around the boy’s eyes when he lowered himself into the steaming water.

The demon didn’t hide his smile. 

But the boy wasn’t looking at him anyway.

The demon waited until he was drying his master afterwards. Until he’d settled the clean nightgown on the flushed small body and knelt back thoughtfully.

And then he produced the little blue glass with its tidy printed label, and held it out to his master, this sapphire glitter in the gloved palm of his hand.

The boy frowned as though it were a spider. ‘What is it?’

‘Calendula oil.’

‘I don’t need anything.’

‘Well.’ Sebastian moved his shoulders in something that would be taken as a shrug. ‘You must surely be in some discomfort, sir.’

He knew he wouldn’t have to explain. The boy picked up the bottle and turned it over slowly and he understood already. His pointed face flushed and puckered in irritation.

And Sebastian continued smoothly. ‘You must treat your body with great consideration, sir. I cannot prevent you from injuring yourself; I can only give advice.’

‘Not necessary.’ His master almost swallowed the words. He was furiously pink. 

‘Your impulsiveness has a youthful quality which is to be commended, of course. But I must point out that there are several better ways to go about such a thing.’

‘I didn’t ask you.’

‘If you had,’ said Sebastian, ‘I would have been able to assist you. If you--’

‘But I didn’t. Did I.’ The boy closed his fist around the little bottle and tucked both hands behind his back, and stood there as prim and proud as if he was dressed in his full regalia.

The demon looked at him sharply. And continued. ‘If you intend to engage in such activities, you may wish to apply forethought next time. And due attention afterwards. When--’

‘That will never happen again.’ 

Sebastian looked at his master’s clear eyes. The weary narrowing of them. And the boy wasn’t bound by the same rules as he was; it was only the demon who was forbidden to lie. 

But he didn’t think his master was lying.

He was very much afraid he wasn’t lying.

‘Perhaps not.’ Sebastian felt the slow shiver of heat down his neck. And this was what came of letting the boy go too far. This unspeakable arrogance, and this strange distance. His master had desires. He had acted upon them, and was still a slave to them. 

If the child would only permit himself to be seduced--

‘Perhaps not,’ Sebastian said again. Very pleasantly. ‘It was clearly too much for my lord to manage.’

‘Calendula.’ The earl’s voice was contemptuous. ‘What do you expect me to do with this?’ But there was a querying light in his eyes as he glanced up from the label.

Of course, of course, no matter how hard he pushed his slinking dog away from him, the helpless little thing still had need of a servant.

If Sebastian would only permit himself to be satisfied with this--

‘Topical application, young master.’ He composed his face sweetly. ‘To all areas of discomfort. For several days, I should think, that can’t have been a _nice_ experience. You dip your fingers into the oil and--’

‘Yes,’ said the boy brusquely. ‘I know what topical means.’

‘Will you need assistance, sir?’ Sebastian asked it carefully. Pointedly.

‘Don’t be stupid.’ The boy was flushed angrily. ‘I can take care of it myself.’

The demon cleared his throat. Imagining. The slip of those small warm fingers in the oil, pressing against the heated sting of his little hole.

‘I would like to watch, sir.’ He knew what the answer would be. It was worthwhile, though. Even to suggest it. To put the thought in his head.

‘Get out,’ said the boy. ‘You _thing_.’

Sebastian went.

**************

Thursday passed.

They were busy. Ciel was busy. He didn’t speak much to his butler.

And Sebastian hadn’t retaliated yet.

The creature was being punished like a dog. Ciel hoped he understood that much. 

And he did, he must-- Sebastian’s pride was a strange liquid thing, flexing and re-forming. Sensitive, though. Quivering at a touch like one of those terrible amorphous creatures dragged from the black heart of the oceans.

There had always been something too mercurial about him. 

This was very different, though. This was rigid. Impeccable.

Ciel wasn’t used to this, Sebastian’s restraint. The butler was clean and perfect, chipped from ivory, painted in ink. He had no thoughts at all. He was only an automaton. Painted waxwork like Madame Tussaud’s.

Ciel sighed, pushing away his empty tea-cup in the pause between scanning the Times’ Financial pages and beginning his Greek homework; his shoulders were stiff. The entire day was a hill to be climbed. And another waiting at the end of it.

The banality of this, the absolute hollowness of these things-- this tea. This desk.

He was tired of thinking. He’d decided not to.

But it was harder than he’d expected, closing the door on his mind and trying to concentrate-- and besides, he could hardly relax; he had a murder to plan for. Very likely his own murder. But his thoughts were infuriatingly wayward.

And here he was, thinking about Sebastian again. 

He hadn’t expected the demon to be pleased about his decision in the library yesterday. It had been a sort of vengeance: it was another kind of collar. But it had been for himself, mostly. Need and curiosity. He’d wanted to know what it felt like, the demon’s body under him. Inside him. And now he knew. It had hurt too much. The calendula oil had helped. Had helped some things. He had a headache.

And here he was, still thinking.

Sebastian hadn’t retaliated yet.

Ciel had always guessed he was more patient than the beast that served him. It had always been more instinct than reason since the moment it stepped out of darkness to serve him. And they’d confronted each other as equals, then, when they sat to discuss their contract in the blood and gore and reek of death in the ruined church. The ruins of everything. When Sebastian had sat opposite him and spoke to him levelly. Legs crossed, quite relaxed. No honorifics, only a terrible shiny readiness that dazzled even as it sickened.

_No one enters a contract from which they only stand to lose something._

And Sebastian had lost something, hadn’t he? He must feel as though he had. Otherwise there wasn’t any point.

Ciel knew what victory tasted like, though. And it wasn’t this.

He pushed back his chair, feeling the drag of its weight on the deep carpet, and left his study.

He was on his way down to the drawing room when he found Sebastian and the servants in the hallway, rolling back the rugs. Polishing the timber parquetry floors.

‘Ah, young master.’ Sebastian was bowing over his clipboard. ‘You may wish to take the stairs down the East Wing.’

Ciel stopped, folding his arms. ‘It’s all going to plan?’ 

‘I believe so, sir.’ The butler was checking something off his list. ‘Everybody has shown remarkable diligence, considering.’

That was something, at least. The butler would behave in front of the others. He could be relied upon for this much. Somehow it was easier to speak to him here, in front of the others. The butler was only a butler. They had a certain understanding. 

And Sebastian was forced to be one thing in front of them, _their_ thing, their head butler, and he was obedient. It was simpler to speak to him like this.

‘The RSVP notes had all come back in, haven’t they?’ Ciel knew they had. But it was a relief to be standing here, feeling normal.

‘Yes, sir. Mr Keane was the last to confirm, but he has done so at last. Theatre people, _tsk_ ; they’re the very devil to organise.’

Lists, plans. So very efficient, everyone, and everything was going to plan.

‘And the stables will be equipped to take the extra horses?’

‘Of course, my lord. We are quite prepared. Really.’ Sebastian’s fine garnet eyes were bright. ‘When have I ever disappointed you, sir?’

Ciel wanted to reply. But the butler had turned away and was shaking his head at Bard. ‘Not like that, carry the roll between you. Lengthwise. Like a body. Yes, better--’

Ciel cleared his throat, drawing the butler’s attention back to him. ‘Everything that’s in our power, anyway. Finny said the rain will be clearing.’

‘Apparently, my lord. It would be better if it were not.’

‘Exactly.’ Ciel bit his lip. ‘And is that within our power?’

‘Dear me, sir. Are you asking your servants to control the weather, now?’ Sebastian's smile was wide and ugly. 

And Bard grinned back over his shoulder as he made his way down the hall, lugging the rolled-up rug with Mey-rin. ‘Sebastian’s good,’ he said, ‘but even he’s got his limits.’

Probably. Ciel frowned. Most people did. He wasn’t even sure if he’d found Sebastian’s, yet.

‘If you would like to check the menus, my lord.’ Sebastian held out the neatly-written pages. And Ciel knew this writing, his butler’s writing, the quick firm dashes with their fine loops.

_Minted Pea Soup._

_Leg of Lamb Roasted._

_Apple and Rosemary Jelly._

_Carrots and Turnips._

He lowered the page. ‘This looks fine,’ he said. ‘It’s the usual sort of thing, isn’t it?’

‘Usual enough, according to the book.’ Sebastian sniffed thoughtfully. ‘The mistress of the house would usually organise the meal-plans in conjunction with her kitchen staff. As the head of the household, your opinion must be consulted. I know how important it is for you to master every detail of a plan, sir.’

The butler’s eyes were cool and insolent.

Ciel frowned. Of course it’s important. The only other option would be to leave everything to his butler, and nobody in their right mind would look at that smug careful creature and trust it to its own devices.

He tried again to read the list. Turned a page.

_Four cases of champagne._

_Two cases of mixed claret._

_1 doz bottles of port._

_1 doz bottles of Spanish sherry._

‘It all looks fine,’ he said. He wouldn’t have a clue how much a handful of bored grown-ups might drink. ‘There are no problems?’

He knew he should be getting back to work. But this, he and his butler standing in the hallways, neither here nor there, and Bard waiting at the top of the stairs-- this is how it used to be. Simple.

‘Only the pheasant, young master.’

Ciel rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘The pheasant?’

‘An estate would normally have a stock of game birds in the pantry at this time of year. But I shall take care of it, sir.’ Sebastian bowed. ‘Hunting wild game is something of a pastime for me.’

‘Hmph. Can you take care of it?’ Ciel looked up at him sharply. At the pristine silhouette of the creature’s face, the wing-sharp corners of his collar.

‘My lord.’ The demon tilted his smooth head. ‘Do you trust me to take care of it?’

Ciel looked away.

There was no way around it. They would have to work together, after all.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘If there are any problems you will let me know immediately. Any problems with anything.’

Because he didn’t trust the beast, of course. He didn’t trust it to do its job without twisting things somehow.

But he couldn’t do everything himself. It was exhausting. He was exhausted. He wanted to put his head down on the heavy desk and sleep.

‘Yes, my lord,’ said the demon. 

**********

Perhaps he’d been caught staring. Is that what drove his master to do it? After the endless silence of dinner, the brimming silence of bath-time. 

The crackling silence of the warm dark bedroom, when Sebastian helped his master into his nightgown, the soft linen sweet with lavender. 

And the boy had pulled the nightgown off again.

‘Come here,’ he’d said. ‘Closer, dog.’

And perhaps his master had planned it; and yes, that was more likely. He rarely acted on impulse. These things were deep-rooted, slow-blooming. The most treacherous of flowers.

Either way, the boy had an idea. Something he wanted.

Sebastian knelt closer. He guarded his expression. This was the safest thing to do: he couldn’t know what the child didn’t want until he was sure of what he did want. Reaction could wait.

‘You want something?’ The boy spoke bitterly. Put out both his little hands, and his nails were sharp in Sebastian’s hair. His master was pulling his head close to his bare chest, for all the world as if he was a dog.

‘You won’t get it, you know.’ Quietly near his cheek. ‘You won’t get anything you want from me.’

Sebastian breathed in the scent of the boy’s skin, still flushed from the bath. 

The warm hands pushed his shoulders away again.

And he was dismissed, then. The demon brushed his gloved palms together. 

‘No,’ said the boy, ‘you’re going to stay and watch.’

The little lord knew. He’d realised.

The boy’s fingers were fine, delicate. Rosy-tipped. Squeezed tight around his own cock.

Sebastian knew his master was burning for it. Shivering with the need to push his cock into his servant’s mouth.

But the boy wasn’t going to do it. He wasn’t even going to give Sebastian a taste of his body.

‘I don’t need you.’ That brittle small voice hung in the shadowy bedroom. ‘I don’t want you.’ 

It wasn’t true. The demon knew it. And it should have been enough to know it, but the realisation didn’t ease the roar in Sebastian’s head. 

The boy was watching him. He knew what he was doing. He knew exactly what he was doing to his servant, and Sebastian’s spine seemed to catch fire. There’d been a time when the child was almost oblivious to it, so self-absorbed in his own pleasure or his own humiliation that he had no knowledge of Sebastian’s torment.

He’d wondered yesterday, when the boy had given his order in the library.

_Lie down._

But this was deliberate.

There should have been some satisfaction in it. His master needed him here. Needed his gaze, his presence. The boy bloomed under it, a poisonous flower. Perfumed at midnight for nobody’s eyes but his.

But Sebastian would not be permitted to approach.

‘Tell me what you want.’ The contempt was sharp in the boy’s features, the curl of his soft mouth. Fat and ruffled as a rose-bud. ‘Tell me what you want, Sebastian.’

_My hands wet with your blood. My cock wet in your mouth._

That’s what the child wanted, though. He wanted to see his demon’s anger.

And usually Sebastian would oblige. But this was different. He didn’t even know if it would work. Would the fear be enough? Because he could frighten the child. He could bare his teeth and remind his master what he was.

It would be no more than the impotent snarl of a caged thing. 

It wasn’t worthwhile.

He’d almost been sure of victory when he’d taken the boy’s mouth in the office. The earl’s soft lips open for his servant’s cock, the quivering tongue sucking hot over the skin of it.

And the boy had taken Sebastian’s finger so sweetly. In the coach, in this very bedroom. 

The demon ran his tongue over the breathless sharp of his teeth. Oh, he’d been so sure.

Too sure.

How does a victory fall through your fingers? Like breath over glass, vanished. Like smoke in the silent air. This was harder than action and decision. This was difficult.

He was tired of pretending.

‘Sebastian.’ Warningly. This word, this name.

It burned through the demon’s seal. 

He growled. 

Softly, but it began deep in his chest and rose until he could feel the throbbing through his skin. The shaking of the candelabra on the bedside commode. 

His master was watching him with tense eyes and he wondered if the boy could feel it too. 

‘I have marked you, sir.’ Sebastian kept his voice controlled. ‘I own you.’ 

‘Not yet.’ The boy stood shivering, naked. His eyes blazed in the dim room. Triumphant. ‘You don’t own me yet.’

Sebastian felt his skin ripple like uneasy water. He knew the shadows stirred around him. He could see it without seeing, he could see it by the heat of the boy’s face. The widening of those clear strange eyes. His master was afraid of him still.

‘Don’t touch me.’ The boy choked. His hand shaking on his own body, his cheeks flushed. ‘Tell me what you want.’

The demon breathed in slowly. And when he spoke it was nearly a sigh. 

‘My lord,’ he said. ‘There is no part of you that I don’t want to break.’

Ciel closed his eyes when he came. His lashes fluttered. Soft as wings over his heated cheeks. He moaned. 

Sebastian didn’t move. He only breathed in the freshness of the boy’s scent, watching the milky slide of it down his master’s thigh.

He had pride, of course. But he was hungry. Too hungry tonight.

‘My lord,’ he said. ‘May I--’

‘You may go,’ said the boy. Breathlessly. His narrow chest was heaving. ‘I don’t need you anymore.’ He bent to wipe his leg with the crumpled nightgown. 

Sebastian stood up slowly, and the stiffness ached in his very bones. 

He felt tired. 

This vessel was still new, this clean mortal form he’d chosen, still pumping with sacrificial blood. But when he stood and checked the fire, when he took up the wavering candelabra and listened to the scuffle of the boy climbing under his waiting blankets, the demon nearly felt as old as he was.

He’d never imagined that this could be their stalemate. So very close, and the scent of his master’s hungry small body still sweet in his nostrils.

He closed the door, almost silently.

And hissed in the empty corridors of his master’s house, not silently at all.

It was going to be a long night.

************

It wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the _same._

Ciel chewed the corner of his pillowcase. He didn’t know long he’d been lying here, but the crisp fabric was sodden now, fraying against his tongue. It tasted of starch and lavender.

What an utter waste of a Thursday.

Unless it was Friday. But it wasn’t. Not that he was aware of-- 

And he didn’t even know. It was stupid.

There had been raspberry sponge cake for dessert tonight. With vanilla cream. He hadn’t even eaten it.

Ciel turned the pillow over with a huff.

Perhaps he should have let Sebastian kiss him. When the beast had tried, nights and nights ago. But Sebastian had been smug, unbearable, and he’d rather die--

Perhaps he should have tried it himself while he’d had the demon collared. He could have, kneeling in its lap.

Ciel began to stroke himself. Lightly, aching. And this had been enough for him once. His own hand. His own thoughts. It was humiliating to need more, to need anybody else.

And to need Sebastian, of all people. 

He’d tried that already, hadn’t he? He shouldn’t still be _needing._

He saw what other people saw. He knew his servant was beautiful, any fool could see it. And it would be hateful if the demon thought Ciel desired him for his beauty, as though he were as foolish as the rest of them. 

Maybe it was better than the truth, though. Ciel bit his lip. If the demon knew it was for everything _but_ his beauty-- 

For his eyes, inhuman. And the edge in his voice. And his shadow, black as ink across the ruins of stone, the wreck of bodies, over everything they’d left behind.

And oh, he was beautiful.

Ciel breathed in sharply. 

_Sebastian._

*************

The demon sighed. He raised his eyes from the ledger on the desk in front of him. 

The young master was calling.

_Sebastian._

He sighed again, heavily, tapping his pen on the page. He was in the Steward’s office, in the golden lamplit silence beside the main kitchen. It was late. The clock said it was late.

_Sebastian._

Oh, this boy. His dreams. His _dreams._ And Sebastian would find his master curled in the shadowed bed, hot and damp and tear-stained, sobbing for something the demon was never going to give him.

Although if Sebastian walked all the way up there and it was only a call for warm milk-- well. His master might get something he hadn’t reckoned on.

_Sebastian._

Thinly, desperate. The child had probably fallen off his bed and hidden under it.

_Ah, S-Sebastian…_

And that sounded very different. The demon put down his pen. Was his master-- He couldn’t be.

Sebastian swallowed, slowly, feeling the press of heat thick in his throat.

Did the boy know his servant was listening? Was he teasing again, sharpening the claws of his faithful dog? 

The demon tilted his head carefully in the silent room, waiting.

_Ah. Ah._

There was no taunt in the soft voice now. This wasn’t like those sharp little breaths, the keen contempt as the boy watched him hungering.

Sebastian could hear only need now, and he knew the child was lost in himself, unthinking of his listening servant.

And somehow that was the thing that pierced him. _That_ was what was stirred deep within his body and made his fingers hot within his gloves. Made him push back his chair and stand, holding the edge of the desk. The demon closed his eyes. Listening.

And it was almost a sob, the boy’s sounds. His name in his master’s mouth.

Sebastian shuddered and pressed his hand to the ache of his arousal.

The earl wasn’t calling for him; he didn’t know how it burned through the demon’s body. A needle under his skin. A hook in his flesh.

This was one of the things he was never meant to notice.

He would go up there. If his master called out once more. He would flash his teeth at the boy--that would feel _good_ \-- and he would see that flutter of fear over his master’s face. Glossing those wide eyes. Sebastian knew that look. He would smell the unwilling fascination even as he watched the little’s mortal body stiffening like a timid soft creature that freezes, playing dead, before it rolls over and pisses itself in terror.

_Sebastian. Ah…_

The demon pushed back his chair with a grunt and went to his master.

***************

The door opened quietly enough but Ciel heard it.

His legs felt heavy. How late was it? He blinked, rolling over, and the wetness of the nightgown against his thighs was uncomfortably distinct. The slide of calendula oil in his hand as he clenched his fingers.

The sulphuric flare of a match hissed and he blinked, following the trail of flame to the candelabra and Sebastian’s steady hands. The butler blew out the match. 

‘You called, sir.’ 

Ciel pressed his knees together. ‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘Go away.’ He was hot beneath the covers, not nearly finished. 

Sebastian settled the candelabra at the bedside. ‘You called,’ he said. His long eyes were flat. Dangerous. He stood still, breathing in sharply. 

‘My lord.’ His sigh was nearly wistful.

And then his pale gloved fingers gleamed in the dim room, pulling at his own collar, a wrench at the knotted black silk. 

Sebastian was loosening his tie. 

And Ciel’s stomach curled small and cold as a stone. ‘I did not,’ he said. ‘You may leave.’

‘Noted, my lord.’ Sebastian was climbing onto the bed and Ciel half-sat up, pulling the blankets close as the demon knelt at his feet. 

‘What the deuce--’

Sebastian was dragging off his blankets. Leaning over him, and the deep feather mattress sank around Ciel as the demon bent low. 

‘You did call me, though,’ said Sebastian. His fists were on either side of Ciel’s hips. He reached, and his gloved hand touched at Ciel’s chin. Slipped around his throat. ‘Did you not?’ 

‘No _._ ’ Ciel drew back into his pillow. His voice hummed against the demon’s palm. ‘Don’t touch me, how dare you--’

‘Young master,’ said Sebastian. ‘I could hear you.’ 

‘I didn’t call for you. I’m not responsible for that, for what I say when I’m doing _that_ \--’

‘I see,’ said Sebastian. His hand paused, curling. ‘That is quite possible, my lord. Lust has an extinguishing effect upon the logical function of the brain.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. He breathed out. ‘Exactly. So I can’t be responsible for--’

Muffled as Sebastian’s hand closed over his mouth. 

The demon was smiling at him. ‘Understood,’ it said. ‘Thank you, sir.’

No. No. Ciel’s chest hurt. He bit at Sebastian’s hand across his mouth. That wasn’t what he meant--

And Sebastian pulled his hand away and Ciel screamed. 

‘You _dog._ That isn’t permission. Just because I--’

The hand again and he couldn’t make a sound. Just muffled. Rage and Sebastian sighed at him-- so soft, too soft, the bastard, and he was leaning down to speak against his ear.

‘What’s fit for the master is fit for the servant. I am not to blame, sir; you opened the door.’ Sebastian’s lips brushed at his ear. A breath. ‘I merely walked inside.’

Ciel tried to speak. Tried to move. 

‘Don’t make a noise, sir, or I shall be required to hold you down for this.’

‘You can’t.’ Ciel gasped as Sebastian pulled his hand away again. But he only whispered. The demon’s knees were straddling him. ‘You can’t.’

‘You disagree with my reasoning, young master?’

‘Your reasoning--’ Ciel was shaky. But Sebastian was watching him, unblinking, close enough for him to see the pulse above the butler’s high collar. The hot light kindling in his servant’s eyes. ‘Your reasoning is the worst sort of fallacy. Just--’ He wriggled. ‘Sophistry. Words.’

‘Yes, sir.’ Sebastian leaned back on his heels, and Ciel breathed out again. Relieved. Freed. 

He half-sat up, his knees still pinned by the demon’s spread thighs. ‘Yes?’ His breaths were short. ‘You agree?’

‘Fallacy,’ said Sebastian. ‘Yes. But I never expected to win this argument with reasoning.’ 

He was unbuttoning his trousers.

Ciel’s blood was ice along his spine. He couldn’t breathe. The demon was heavy on his lap. And hot. And its arousal pressed against his knees. _Hard._

‘Piss off,’ he said. 

Sebastian smiled.

Ciel shoved at the demon’s chest and it didn’t flinch. It was pushing up his nightgown.

‘Sir.’ Sebastian’s eyes were hard, and he gripped Ciel’s knee. Pushed it high. ‘If you wish me to listen, you must order me to stop.’ He leaned lower, and his hair swept over Ciel’s face. ‘Look directly at me. And order me to stop.’

Ciel looked. Long and dark, Sebastian’s eyes. Heavy. Hungry. 

‘You bastard--’

‘If you can do that, my lord-- if you are capable of telling me you didn’t just call my _name_ \--’

‘I didn’t _call_ you--’

‘And didn’t breathe, I suppose. Didn’t touch yourself, my lord? Didn’t put your own finger inside and think of me?’

Ciel turned his face away. His hands were fists against Sebastian’s waistcoat. ‘Get out,’ he said, ‘get out, get out--’

‘My name, sir.’ Sebastian bent low against his ear. Ciel’s legs hurt, pressed against his chest. ‘Did you say it?’

It knew. It already knew.

Ciel hissed. ‘ _Yes.’_

And he could feel Sebastian’s fingers between his legs, grasping, seeking, the cold gloved fingertips finding his hole and pushing in. He gritted his teeth. 

Sharp-seamed. Rough inside him and he squealed. Sebastian’s hand again, cotton over his mouth, and the voice, _that_ voice, hot at his shoulder.

‘Still soft. Oh, sir.’ Burning as the fingers moved inside him, rhythmic. Harsh. ‘Were you waiting for me?’

Deeper, and he felt the demon’s thrusting fingers curl. ‘More.’ Sebastian whispered. Quietly over Ciel’s muffled grunts, his grunts and the sting in his throat. He couldn’t _speak_. ‘Did you want more, young master?’

And then Ciel could breathe again, still blinking, still gasping as he realised the demon was going to do this. There was no way out. 

‘Gently, sir.’ The demon’s fingers pierced him. Plunging. ‘Or you’ll hurt yourself.’ Sebastian’s hand tangled into his hair. ‘Gently, now.’

But there was nothing gentle in the burn between his legs, the bump of Sebastian’s knuckles, and Ciel flailed at the demon’s chest, his neck, his pale face, and Sebastian hissed. 

And now his hands were caught up, stretched above his head, and Sebastian shifted against his legs. And the strong fingers pulled out of him, and he gasped at the demon’s sharp eyes hardening and the touch of something hot, hot against his stinging hole. 

He curled, a panic. He could see it between his spread knees, between Sebastian’s. The demon’s bare cock, dark against the white glove of Sebastian’s guiding hand. Inflamed, red. A glisten in the candlelight. Thick as his wrist--

He couldn’t breathe. ‘You can’t--’

‘Can’t, sir?’ Sebastian’s hand was tight around his wrists. The heat pushed firm against him, pressed at his entrance.

‘You can’t act like I wanted it.’ 

‘No, sir,’ said Sebastian. ‘I was not planning to.’

‘You wouldn’t--’ Ciel was breathless. Raw. Cold, and he spat the words. ‘You wouldn’t _dare_.’

‘My lord.’ The demon smiled, and his teeth were very sharp. ‘What a foolish thing to say.’ 

Sebastian pushed it in. 

Ciel choked. 

He couldn’t move. But the demon was moving, holding him pressed against the bed, wrists and chest and pushing harder, and Ciel moaned between his teeth. His ears roared. And it was deeper than Sebastian’s fingers had ever touched inside him, burning. 

Better. 

Everything.

Ciel heard his own sobs, hoarsely. He was arching, arching, and there was no room, his knees pinned his chest and the demon was heavy and there was no air left to breathe.

Ciel pushed his head back into the pillow, frantic.

And cried out. His hair was caught. Pulled back, and he was looking up at the demon’s wet dark eyes, the feline slits. Hot red. 

‘Look at me, sir.’ Sebastian’s voice was soft. Terrible. ‘Would you make a liar of me?’ 

Ciel couldn’t answer. His head was pinned still. 

‘I told you, sir. Did I not?’ Sebastian’s face was pale, sharp. The grip tightened in Ciel’s hair. ‘I told you. I intend to look you in the eye when I take you.’

And Ciel was pierced, that gaze and that grip and Sebastian’s breath across his open mouth, so close, so close.

‘You have a voice,’ said Sebastian. ‘Use it. Tell me--’ His voice broke. ‘Tell me you don’t want me to fuck you, sir.’

Ciel clenched his hands. He hated it. He squeezed his eyes shut. And the demon pushed in deeper, and he hated most of all that he didn’t say the words. 

Sebastian’s shoulder was heavy at his cheek, and it was shaking.

It burned. And the weight of the demon’s hips were rolling, thrusting. 

He was stretched open and crying under the shudder of the canopy. 

His back was going to _break._ The demon’s hand slid under him, hard at his spine. Close, closer, bent under the shove of Sebastian’s hips.

Oh. Oh. Pulled apart, sharp and deep and the cock inside him trembling. Fierce. 

‘Let me,’ said Sebastian, warm against his ear. ‘Let me take you.’

Burning. Burnt. He wailed. The shadow, the shudder and his own cock shaking helplessly against the fold of his belly. He closed his eyes. And let his world go black.

And then his insides were afire and he tensed. Stung. 

Screaming. 

‘ _Stop_ , I--’

‘Hush.’

‘ _Stop_ , I can’t--’

‘Hush.’

He arched and it hurt and he was blinded with tears, burning inside, clenching and biting and the demon didn’t slow inside the ache, the ache as he panted and screwed his eyes shut. And it hurt, and it was much too deep inside him, pressing, and his body seized up around Sebastian’s thrusting.

His chest hurt. He had no air to sob. His ribs ached at the press of his knees, his bent back. He had no sound left. It didn’t matter. He was very far away.

‘Oh,’ said the demon at last, against his hair. A purr, deeply. A grunt. And Ciel felt the quiver inside him. 

He winced. 

Sebastian’s fingers clenched under his spine. 

The demon’s head sank heavy on the pillow beside his, and he heard Sebastian sigh. His wrists were loosened slowly. 

Ciel lay very still. His legs flopped loose on the bed as the demon shifted, pulled out. 

He was shivering. He didn’t move his numb fingers. He was wet between his legs, a sticky heat. Wet over his belly. He must have spilled on his own chest. He didn’t remember. 

He half-opened his eyes.

Sebastian was kneeling back. Leaning his fists in the covers, and his hair was tumbled over his eyes. Dark eyes, half-lidded. He didn’t look at Ciel.

‘Now,’ the butler said. He pushed his hair back slowly. And buttoned his trousers, his white-gloved hands glimmering pale in the shadow of the bed. ‘Now,’ said the butler again, and it wasn’t quite steady. ‘I would advise you, sir. Don’t call for me again. Not unless you are entirely prepared for me to arrive.’

He tugged his collar straight, and the deep feather mattress shifted as he stood up. Ciel closed his eyes again.

The night air was cool, but his body felt like living fire. 

‘I shall prepare you a bath, my lord.’

He felt the mattress shift as Sebastian leaned over him again.

‘Sir.’ Shortly.

Ciel didn’t turn his head. Didn’t open his eyes from the blood-veined darkness. But he whispered. ‘Go away.’ He swallowed. ‘That’s an order.’

If the demon answered, it was only a whisper.

And a sharp breath as Sebastian blew the candle out. Then the door closed quietly.

Silence. Silence, and the charcoal scent of smoke still drifting, sharp and tenuous. A breath in the air. 

Burnt.

  
  


************

  
  


It was three hours until dawn. 

Sebastian had five loaves of bread to bake, and three pheasants to gut and pluck.

He did neither of those things.

He went to the service quarters and ran himself a bath. 

A splash from the kitchen pump, the rattling bucket. The slow heating of the boiler for the hot water, deep in the chipped tin tub-- no piped taps for staff, not here, no white enamel and spotless porcelain.

He undressed, silently. Set his pocket-watch beside his cuff-links on his folded jacket. Stepped into the water, barely stirring the surface, sat down in it, and rested his forehead against his tucked-up knees.

There was no time for this, of course. There was never time. But he was fairly certain he had earned it.

His throat hurt. He had been too loud. He hadn’t noticed.

He felt good. Quite comfortable. Good. 

_Very_ good, that last flinch of his master’s folded little body. And the relief of spilling into him-- the slow velvet gush. Sweet, final. 

But he hadn’t planned for this. Not like this _._ Fucking the boy in hunger, unprepared. 

The boy had spent quite helplessly. Red-cheeked. Weeping. Transfigured, the arrogance washed out of his stained face, his little legs. Perfection.

That angry _mouth._

The demon would need to tread as though on glass tomorrow. It would be days, now, weeks of caution if the boy was ever to allow him close again. 

Tiresome. He had enough to do already.

Worthwhile? 

The demon considered. Felt the boy’s weeping mouth again at his shoulder, the satisfaction of his straining little body. Felt it stir along his back. Felt it ripple, felt his edges blur into the steaming water. Worthwhile. Yes.

The bathwater was good. In another place, another time, he might almost have been able to sleep tonight.

An uncertain game. A certain outcome. 

But even through the luxurious warmth in his limbs, there was almost a flavour of regret; and the demon sighed, his hot eyes closing. 

This too was explicable. 

He’d rushed the thing, of course. If he hadn’t needed to pin his master’s limbs he could have watched it properly, the slide of his cock inside the little clench.

The boy hadn’t even spoken afterwards. He’d been silent as a doll. Delicate, waxwork. 

Sebastian pressed his knuckles deep into the ache of his dry eyes. The thought sat like a stone behind them. Impossibly. Undeniably.

The demon knew he hadn’t quite won this match.

His only consolation was that the boy might not realise it.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thank to my lovely [Sinnergy](https://sinnergism.tumblr.com/) for the beta! 
> 
> Updates will be the 13th of every month! The next update will be August 13, as I try to balance a _schedule that motivates _with_ free time_...
> 
> _  
> _In the meantime-- come and find me on Tumblr @amanitus. Drop an ask, or say hello. I won't be far away, and I appreciate every single reader, comment and kudos. You guys are brilliant and lovely and make this so fun-- xx_  
> _


	15. post {after}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is twice the usual length, kiddos. Grab your popcorn.

The clock was chiming eight; hushed, melodious. In the silver wake of silence Ciel heard the bedroom door click shut.

‘Good morning, young master.’ 

His heart pulsed against the feather mattress. He didn’t turn his face from the pillow.

‘Your tea is an Orange Pekoe from Mariage Frères, and breakfast is a milk blancmange with poached rhubarb, sir.’

Ciel could hear the voice, warm, unhurried, and the rustle of the heavy silk drapes. 

‘There is much to do this morning, my lord; your presence will be required to review the sleeping arrangements for Tuesday’s guests, and decisions must be made regarding the seating for dinner.’

Ciel didn’t move. Not his face, hot in the stifling pillow, not his legs, or his aching back. 

‘Come along, young master.’ The voice was close above him. Bending over the bed. ‘It is time to get up.’

Ciel turned his head, just a fraction. Enough for his voice to be almost clear. ‘I’m tired. Go away.’

The butler didn’t answer. A moment later Ciel heard the distant thump of a door and the rush of water from the bathroom beyond. And then the wardrobes in his dressing room. Drawers. 

And Sebastian’s voice again, back at the bedside. ‘Up now, my lord.’

Ciel was silent.

‘The time, sir.’ A pause. ‘Twelve past eight already.’

Ciel didn’t much care what time it was. He would have to get up some time, of course, but he wasn’t near ready. He rolled. Slowly, raising himself on his elbow to shift his hips. And settled his cheek into the cool pillow again, his eyes closed. ‘I’m not getting up yet.’

‘My lord.’ The butler sighed somewhere above him. ‘Your bath. If you please, sir.’

‘Piss off and make some scones.’

‘I see,’ said the butler. ‘You are still uncomfortable.’

There was no reply to that.

‘I shall take more care next time, sir.’

Oh. And would there be a _next time_? Ciel tightened the line of his body, and felt the ache. No. No. He couldn’t think about it. 

‘If this is the case, my lord, I shall have to carry you.’

Ciel lay still. And the warm bulk of blankets were flicked quietly back from his body. He wondered for a heartbeat. Could he disappear?

He’d hidden under beds when he was very small. Behind curtains. Under the heavy desk in the study. Hiding, waiting, playing, breathless and hoping that the tips of his shoes weren’t showing. And even when he’d heard the patter of steps behind him, beside him, the panting breath as the world caught up with him and they were on the very _edge_ of finding him, the boy and the black dog, finding him in the hidden corners of their father’s house--

He’d wondered. If he wished hard enough, could he make himself invisible?

He’d tried it once. It hadn’t worked. 

‘Sir.’

Ciel felt the goose-flesh ripple over his chilled legs. And then the touch on his back. Sebastian’s palm, resting between his shoulder-blades. 

Lightly. Unbearably.

His eyes prickled hot. Another moment and there would be nowhere to hide. He might even say something, in front of this creature. If he met its eyes. He’d be tangled under that hard gaze, bright and empty as topaz. Clear, faceted. Refractions of light. A moment--

‘Young master.’

‘Al _right_.’ Ciel wriggled away from the butler’s hand and sat up. ‘I’m going.’

He set his feet on the carpet carefully, treading the steps between the bedside and the bathroom.

He wasn’t quite balanced this morning. He was tired. A little clumsy. As though his wrists were bound by invisible threads; too jerky, a dangling marionette.

The butler was watching him when he stepped over the rolled-iron edge of the bath, but he wasn’t going to turn his head to see.

If he counted the glitter of copper nailheads in the bathroom’s wooden floor, time moved more quickly. He could ignore the movement of his butler behind him, the splash of the washcloth, its movement over his back. His neck. If he turned his thoughts towards the weekend, and the week after it: yes. Plans. Something worth untangling. 

It was a day. Just another day, and this one happened to be a Friday; which meant less work tomorrow. Which would be nice. And things go on, as they always do, and Mey-rin was whistling as she beat out the carpets in the courtyard somewhere below the bathroom window. 

Another day. Even when you think it’s impossible there’s nothing that can stop the sun from rising. From slanting through your windows, over your hands and knees and the bubbles on the water’s surface, as pretty as it was yesterday. As impartial. The sun shines on all things. It warms a murderer’s hair. It glows over the starched-white knuckles of a butler, over the pale span of skin between glove and rolled sleeve. The inescapable butler. The inescapable sunlight.

And everything still revolves around it.

They used to think it all moved around the Earth. An easy mistake to make. Who is the centre of all things, if not ourselves?

And even though you sit at the centre of your own web, your own torn spiderweb, you are the centre of nobody’s universe but your own. Even if every stray breath of wind stirs you, sends ripples through the silken strands that keep you together. 

Nothing could stop the sun from rising. No power, no trick. No magic. No demon. 

Could he? What could the creature do?

What were its limits? 

Ciel closed his eyes.

And he was tired. Tired. But he had work to do, and there were too many days left until he would be able to sleep.

*********************

At half-past ten, Sebastian heard the bell ring for tea. His master’s study.

He carried it up, feeling the slow unwinding of the steps, the unspooling of something that had been tied too tightly inside him. Relief.

He’d actually been anxious about the earl’s mood this morning. A tension in his neck quite inappropriate for a creature who had satisfied itself so recently. _Almost_ satisfied. Satisfied enough; and anyway, it was resolved now, an infinitely better outcome than he’d had ever predicted. Sudden, magnificent. 

The young master was quiet today, of course, and justifiably so; he must be in considerable discomfort. Sebastian had not taken his time over things last night. And nobody likes to lose a game that they had been on the edge of winning.

But the boy’s eyes had been bright and clear while Sebastian dressed him. And all was well, after all. The boy had taken it well. Was taking it well this morning, in a pleasant sort of contemplation. Not rage, not sulking, only a touch of sleepiness around his eyes. Almost endearing. Sleepy small master. 

And he was bent studiously over his desk when Sebastian entered; not studying, though. Even from here Sebastian could see the smudged-up pages, the red corrections scattered like dribbled blood over the page.

The boy wasn’t working. He was hardly managing his sums. 

Sebastian poured the tea, in the silence that his master preferred. He didn’t even tease him.

‘And will there be anything else, sir?’

‘Nothing.’ The small gloved fingers flicked him away, half-absently.

And Sebastian went downstairs again. Relieved. It was a pleasant glow.

Although if he’d been human he might have been daunted by the length of the list that was pinned outside the pantry wall. As it was, it was going to be a difficult week. 

Airing out all the bedrooms. The linen. The last of the gardening, cooking, window-cleaning, and somebody had to take the slipcover off the ballroom chandelier.

‘I didn’t _touch_ it.’ Mey-rin’s voice drifted from the staff dining table. ‘The conservatory is part of the garden, not the house. Ask Finny.’

And Bard’s voice, slow with the patience of somebody who didn’t deserve patience themselves. ‘It has a roof, it’s part of the house. And that means you have to do the windows.’

‘But there must be a hundred of them.’ Mey-rin was sighing. ‘The young master’s guests are going to see it. What will they think of him if his house isn’t tidy? We need more ladders.’

Bard snorted. ‘We need another set of hands.’

Sebastian leaned around the doorway from the store kitchen. ‘Tsk. We _need_ to follow the list and do our duties and not spend eighteen minutes on a fifteen-minute tea-break. Back to it, now.’

He heard them trooping back outside.

And sighed. It was going to be a dreadful few days.

But as he moved about the house, ticking off his list and measuring the hours by the waxing off pale sunlight-- by the slow fade of it-- by the tick of his watch like a human heartbeat, and the boy’s meals, prim lunch and silent dinner-- oh, his head was very clear, and his shoulders were very relaxed, and it could _certainly_ have been worse.

****************

‘Sir.’

Ciel was warm. Calm.

‘Sir.’

He was curled on his chair in the library, beside the fire, with his book open and half-sliding off his knees and his eyes just unfocused enough that the world was a golden glow. As though the sun had set in the hearth. Streaming through his eyelashes.

‘Sir.’

If only he were alone it would be perfect.

‘Your bath, my lord.’

Ciel shifted in his seat. The thought of undressing, waiting, in the dripping echo in the cold bathroom--

‘I shall go straight to bed.’

‘As you please, young master.’

The hush of the long hallway, and then the dull echo of his heels on the staircase. The silence behind him. And then his bedroom.

He thought of other things. 

He’d managed that very well today. 

He sat on the edge of his bed, his hands loose in his lap while Sebastian unbuckled his shoes. His gaze fixed safely on the canopy above him. And then the butler was sliding down the slink of his woollen stocking. 

Ciel’s bare toes felt crumpled and he wriggled them. And felt Sebastian’s long fingers curl around them, capturing his foot. He closed his eyes. 

The demon’s breath was hot over his skin. And then the slide of Sebastian’s tongue, a flick under his arch.

Ciel flinched. Gooseflesh prickled over his thigh.

‘Nng, don’t be _vile_ \--’

Sebastian’s teeth grazed his ankle-bone. The inner tendon. Sharp and wrong, like the tickle of an ant somewhere down one’s spine. Unreachable, inexplicable. 

Ciel’s toes curled. He kept his eyes closed, his fists tight in his lap.

Sebastian’s fingertips were lingering too long behind his knee. Stroking. As soft as the low voice.

‘There was something you wanted, my lord.’

‘Yes,’ Ciel said. He sighed, a long ache from the bottom of his lungs. He opened his eyes.‘Unbutton.’

And it was lighting the demon’s gaze already, that kindling heat, and that contemptuous small smile.

‘I see, sir.’

But Ciel had already made up his mind. It scarcely mattered. His butler could say nothing that he hadn’t said to himself already. 

‘It’s your duty. You said so. I say so. Do your bloody job, then.’

He had the dog-collar waiting, though. Tucked away neatly in the drawer of the bedside commode, with the books and notepaper and the little chemist’s bottle of calendula oil that his butler had given him. 

‘Kneel.’

And tonight it was hardly even a stir in his blood when his servant obeyed.

Ciel pushed his thumb under Sebastian’s white collar. And he found the little stud at the front of the shirt, and the top button, and he undid it. Slowly.

He fastened the black leather around the demon’s throat. Tight around the bare skin. He paused, his hands still resting on the band of leather.

Nobody could stop him from unbuttoning the rest. The waistcoat, and the shirt. Finding the clean skin underneath. Warm-- he must be warm, Ciel could feel it against his hands, Sebastian’s heated body.

But then he’d see. He didn’t want to see or think or question-- how much of his servant was human? How deep did the illusion run?

He stood back to look. At the shadow-dark of the butler’s eyes, the pale gleam of firelight over his cheekbones. In the depth of his gaze. 

Ciel whispered. ‘Stupid dog.’ He turned back towards his bed.

And felt the demon’s body press close behind him.

‘Is that what you want, sir?’ The creature’s nails curled into his hip, sharp through the glove, through his shirt. ‘Shall I take you like a dog?’ Ciel felt the heat of the demon’s body, the swell of the waiting cock against his rump. The slow grind of Sebastian’s body. ‘Shall I fuck you like this?’

‘No,’ Ciel said, and breathed in sharply. ‘Not like that.’

He didn’t like turning his back on the creature. Not when he knew its eyes were lit like this, a glitter like cut-glass. 

Even if it was collared, even if he knew it was safe.

But it was never safe.

He turned back towards the demon. Looked at its strong hands, waiting; its buttoned shirt-front. Raised his eyes to the thick band of leather around its throat. It was wearing the collar he’d bought for it.

Ciel sighed. 

And this way, when he stretched out on his back, he could close his eyes and it wasn’t only darkness behind them.

He felt Sebastian’s hands undo his shorts, and shuffle them off. And then run warmly up his thighs. Spreading his knees. 

Ciel opened his eyes, a sliver of light. 

Further apart, and further. He could see his purpling skin around the demon’s grip, and it burned him. The beast could pull him into pieces. His bones could crack beneath the strain and it would smile, wrist-deep in his blood, stirring him inside.

He lay still, he let himself be pulled up onto those strong thighs. Closed his eyes, and didn’t watch, only a little, only through his lashes as the demon guided himself between his master’s legs. Sebastian’s gloved fingers gripping white against the darkened shaft.

‘Hold,’ said Sebastian.

‘Hold--’

‘ _Hold_ ,’ the demon said again, and slid Ciel’s stiff hands into place, and Ciel was flushing, furious. Holding himself open for his servant. But it was too late for shame, and he tried to breathe as Sebastian pushed into him heavily.

Sharp, complete.

It was all too easy to fall away into the throb behind his eyes.

He heard his bedroom door close again, later. And that was his Friday evening.

On Saturday, Ciel lingered in the bath after dinner. _Saturday_ he was almost tempted to pretend he couldn’t see the demon unbuttoning his trousers at the bedside.

Because he hadn’t intended to keep on doing this. 

He’d barely spoken to the butler during the day, beyond orders for tea, and the meals he could hardly bring himself to touch. Sebastian was busy with the preparations, of course. Keeping himself busy. And so was Ciel-- he’d been busy all day. He must have been. There was still an ink-stain on his hand.

He hadn’t wanted this, but somehow this was the only moment of his day that even mattered.

There was a sickening blandness around Sebastian’s lovely face. He had the cleverness to stay silent, though, and Ciel had considered it in a sort of wonder as he sank deeper into his bath; it was a very carefully well-judged silence, and the demon had clearly decided between the pleasures of smug commentary and the pleasures of carnal satisfaction and made his decision.

And the demon must be satisfied. He looked satisfied now, though he said nothing. The corners of his mouth had almost turned up when he served at the table. 

Though he wasn’t smiling now, as he dried down Ciel’s legs. Not quite a smile. Not quite.

Ciel’s stomach felt cold and tight. He stood naked beside his bed. Waiting. It wouldn’t have mattered if he were as clothed as Sebastian. The creature and its desire followed him, like the scent of smoke rubbed too deep into one’s skin. 

The demon put down the towel, glancing up at his master. He hadn’t rolled down his sleeves. He didn’t put on his jacket again. He knew what was coming, too, and he was undoing his trousers.

‘Turn around, sir. Kneel up on the bed.’

Ciel swallowed. ‘Don’t order me.’

Perhaps it would be simpler, though. To curl up his knees, to feel his heart thump against the bed. To close his eyes, his face pressed into the sheets. Simpler than aching under the demon’s gaze. Simpler than the temptation to hold Sebastian’s collar and gasp his name.

He sat on the edge of the bed, and Sebastian moved closer on his knees. The touch of his fingers was light as moth-wings, a flutter over Ciel’s bare shivering calf. And the demon leaned down and pressed his lips to Ciel’s thigh.

‘Don’t.’ He twitched. ‘I didn’t tell you to be gentle with me.’

Sebastian looked up at him. Blinked. 

And Ciel knew he’d made a terrible mistake.

He couldn’t even grab at the pillow as he was rolled over, scrabbling over the sheets for something to hold onto, and the demon's nails were sharp. In his back. Over his hips. Pulling him close.

It burned. But not as badly as the demon’s lips had burned. 

Without pretence, near-silent, only the shudder of the bed, the curtains, and his own noises buried in the mattress. Sebastian’s hand on his neck. Sebastian’s movement deep inside him, buried, and the panting breath. 

He didn’t know how long it was. But it was long after he ran out of breath and his tears were already cold on his cheeks, long after he’d told himself he'd had enough and still said nothing. The clock was striking somewhere. He couldn’t count. He couldn’t hear it over the roar in his ears. 

Stronger than he’d ever dreamed, the grip on the back of his neck. He heard his own breaths, a whistle in his crushed throat.

And it felt good. 

And inside him--

Better to be taken here, on the edge of the game, and pretend there was no game. Pretend this was real. 

It hurt. It must be real.

He collapsed onto his belly when the demon was finished with him. His legs were icy, damp. He curled on his side, feeling the burn of his cheek against the cool linen. Easing onto his back. 

And he tipped his head back against the pillow and closed his eyes.

‘Do you like it so much as that?’ It came out more of a whisper than a proper scoff.

The demon did not reply for a moment, and when Ciel opened his eyes again he saw Sebastian’s dark ones looking back down at him; blinking, focusing.

‘What?’ It was low and rough.

‘I _said_ , do you truly like it so much as that?’ Ciel looked up at him coldly. ‘Do you like this. Defiling me.’

The demon’s face creased in a frown. He licked his lips. ‘Yes,’ he said.

Ciel couldn’t find any more words. He turned himself back towards the mattress, stretching out the length of his back. Feeling the clean sheets on the clammy flush of his belly.

The bed shifted around him as Sebastian moved.

‘More,’ said the demon at his ear. A whisper.

Ciel said nothing, and burrowed his face into the pillow. He felt the cool hand rest lightly on his back, and the press of the demon’s cheek beside his. 

‘More.’ 

Ciel’s heartbeat still thumped against the feather mattress. Catching the breath in his throat, and he bit his lip. 

Sebastian’s mouth was soft and hot on his neck. On his shoulder. And at his ear again. ‘More.’

Ciel made a quiet sound in his throat and shifted his legs apart. 

The demon settled himself between them, his weight close against Ciel’s back.

And Ciel was silent this time, because his chest hurt and his throat hurt and it stung when Sebastian pushed inside again. And his own cock trembled, pressed between his shaken body and the damp bedsheet, too soft to spend and too uneasy for relief.

The beast had taken him already and was still unsatisfied. Ciel’s mouth was sour with disgust.

He clenched his body and heard the demon’s gasp. The sound flushed through his shaken chest. And it ached, and it ached, and Sebastian moved sharply into him and the thrust of his hunger was a deeper ache.

It would always be foul, oblique. Too much, not quite, and never enough.

Later, though, when he wasn't crying any more, he felt the demon’s teeth in the back of his shoulder. And then the shudder. The clench of claws in his hair. And the muttered words, inaudible, before the demon pulled out. 

Silence, and his servant’s breathing. 

And then the demon’s hand slipped down between his legs, found Ciel’s cock still hard and hurting, and gripped him. Brisk, efficient. Squeezing a moan from him that even the thick cock hadn’t, those kneading fingers, his demon’s fingers, and Ciel let his body shiver as he came in Sebastian’s fist.

The blankets settled over him, right to his shoulders. In case he caught a _chill._ And the breathy sound Ciel was making against the sheets was almost a miserable sort of laughter. 

He lay still. And heard his butler moving around the bedroom in the dark, quietly, fetching the fresh nightgown. Running the bath. Doing his bloody job, quite perfectly, oh, the creature was bloody per _fect_ ion, wasn’t he?

He didn’t look at his butler as Sebastian bathed him. Dressed him. 

He didn’t turn his face towards the bedroom door before it closed. 

****************

The next morning the earl didn’t open his eyes.

Sebastian pulled back the curtains. He removed the covers from the steaming dish of poached pears. ‘Your breakfast, sir.’ And he waited.

‘Mhm.’ The boy’s small mouth was gathered tightly. 

Sebastian filled the tea-pot. And spread blackberry jelly over the croissant.

His master hadn’t moved.

And somewhere between pouring the tea and spooning the sugar, Sebastian felt a stirring of unease at the base of his spine. It was Sunday. There was no rush this morning, of course. But the week to come would be perilously uncertain, and the entire household needed to be prepared.

The master too. The boy needed to be focused.

Sebastian cleared his throat, the same note of warning that he employed before addressing a guest, or rousing Finny from a daydream, or knocking on the door of the staff quarters. 

‘If you are unwell, my lord, I shall be happy to telephone for the physician. We can take no risks with your health at the moment.’

It took some time before his master replied. The dark lashes barely moved. And Sebastian wasn’t entirely sure it was stubbornness that delayed the quiet words.

‘Don’t. S’fine.’

Sebastian sighed. ‘It was only last month that you suffered a serious relapse, my lord, after straining yourself with rough living at the Circus.’ He stirred his master’s tea briskly. ‘You had quite a fever. Your lungs inflamed, your body unpleasantly--’

‘I know. I was there.’

The boy hadn’t lost his sense of sarcasm. It would probably be the last thing left, actually, when death seized the angry little thing. What a lovely mess he’d be. Just a trickle of hot blood between Sebastian’s fingers, and the last spurt of life, and that small voice. Drily. Mocking him.

‘Then you will be fully aware how important it is that you conserve your energy. Perhaps you should remain in bed today.’

That’s what Agni would advise. Sebastian was quite sure of that.

‘Mhm. Just leave me alone.’

‘Sir--’ 

Sebastian leaned down and put out his hand.

And the boy slapped it away. ‘Don’t touch me.’ His eyes were open, narrowed. ‘Your familiarity is appalling.’

‘Your health will suffer if you fail to--’

‘There’s nothing wrong with my health. It's just my eyes. My head spins when I move it.’

But Sebastian could hear it, the high feverish patter of the young pulse. 

‘I hope that it is not another attack of asthma, sir.’

‘It’s not. It’s not--’ And the boy stirred, putting his hand to his ribs. ‘Not that sort of thing.’

Sebastian followed the movement with his eyes. ‘It is your chest, though. I really must insist that we call a physician.’

‘Insist.’ His master snorted. ‘I don’t see why it matters to you.’

‘My lord.’ Sebastian kept his voice low. ‘You know it is the greatest priority of my duty to keep you alive.’

‘Yes,’ said the earl. He sighed. ‘I know. You have never given me reason to doubt that.’

His eyes were still resolutely closed. He didn’t get out of his bed.

Sebastian went back up at tea time. At lunch time. The tea had been touched; the food had not. The earl had missed his mid-morning appointment with Mr Tanaka. 

Sebastian frowned on his way back downstairs.

He was still frowning over the pantry inventory when he heard footsteps; a slow tread, measured. The old man was at the doorway. Hanging up his hat, and then the floorboards creaked. 

Tanaka sat down at the staff table. 

‘Sebastian.’

‘Mr Tanaka.’ He flashed the man a brief smile.

‘Sit down, won’t you.’

‘I’m fine.’ Sebastian turned back to his list. Standing at the counter, leaning his hip against it. He tapped the paper irritably with his pencil and let the Steward’s words wash past him-- fields and farms and hedges and land-tax and roof repairs for the stable.

He nodded, waited, half-followed the conversation, and it was lucky he wasn't human or he might have had to listen.

But the old man was asking him something now. 

‘How is the young master managing?’

So that’s what this was about. 

Sebastian didn’t turn his head. ‘He isn’t. He is tired, but he refuses to eat. His health is fragile.’ He shrugged. ‘If it worsens we shall consult a physician. I’m sure his fit of determination will pass soon enough.’

‘It wasn’t an asthmatic attack?’

‘I would know if it was.’ Sebastian glanced across. A low flare of resentment, dully. ‘My lord has never been proficient at recognising his own limitations. It is probably a slight fever.’

‘Dizziness?’

‘A little.’

‘And his chest.’

Sebastian put down the paper. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Yes, that is the case.’ He looked at the old man’s steady face. ‘What are you suggesting?’

Tanaka’s worn face creased more deeply, but his eyes were pale and sharp. ‘Cardiac neurosis.’

Sebastian tapped the pen against his chin. ‘Elaborate, if you please, Mr Tanaka.’

‘It manifests as exhaustion, both mental and physical, and an inability to manage everyday work. Documented cases were noted during the American Civil War. It is more common amongst soldiers, but it can develop under any circumstances of prolonged work and tension.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian leaned back against the counter. ‘And you have a reason for believing the young master to be thus inflicted?’

The old man made a conciliatory movement with his fingers. ‘Madame Dalles made mention of it. She always held a concern for the young master’s predecessor, and the inevitable strain of health that such a position of responsibility places upon an individual. And she was watching the young master closely when he first assumed his title and his role.’

Of course. The young master’s aunt had been quite close to her nephew, once. One of the few left who’d shown affection for him, and not simply the usual sort of pity that mortals carried in their faces in the Earl’s presence. The only one who seemed to know something of what the boy had suffered, the agony of loss.

She’d been hopelessly entangled in her brother-in-law, of course. Sebastian remembered that. The hunger in the woman’s eyes when she looked at the young earl. Her sister’s child. Born to the man she still desired; and it was a strange look. Sebastian knew it. Both need and hatred.

Mortals are so peculiar in their loves: to idealise a thing in softness, and be driven to insanity for it. To slaughter each other like so many animals. 

She’d cornered Sebastian at the decoration ceremony, actually. He’d been watching in silence from the back of the hall as the boy’s transformation was completed, as the ragged orphan stood before his Queen in full regalia and received the title of Earl, and Madame Dalles had apparently been watching him.

 _You should have stood closer._ And why? _You’re as good as family to Ciel, now._

And Sebastian hadn’t found it worth his while to explain that every noun in that statement was a lie. _You_ and _family_ and _Ciel._

An interesting woman. More interesting than some. More passionate than the boy’s other aunt, the Phantomhive sister, the brisk Baroness Midford with her steady hard stare. That might have been where the young master inherited it. That gaze was quite effective.

Sebastian would never tell him that.

His beauty, though, was all from his parents themselves-- his delicacy. The pair of them, two perfect little noblemen, the Phantomhive twins-- he’d seen that in the boy’s memories. The older one, the dead one, the one who was only a lingering memory on the demon’s tongue. The one Sebastian had never wanted, really. The spare. 

Sebastian remembered this, too. The last time he’d seen his master mention his parents. That first week, the days at the hospital. Tended by his aunt; and by this man, this remnant of loyalty from the old household. 

‘He has come so far.’ Sebastian spoke thoughtfully. ‘He was quite badly damaged.’

The boy had seemed so small. Frail. Tucked up in the old man’s lap.

‘He has,’ said Tanaka. ‘It would be a tragedy if his mind were to regress as severely as his health.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I’m glad you understand.’ The old man was waiting, his eyes pale and watchful. 

‘Yes,’ Sebastian said. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘He is a credit to his family, and to his Queen. But he is very young.’

Sebastian looked at the man. ‘I’m aware,’ he said shortly. 

Tanaka didn’t appear to have heard. ‘When a man performs his duty so admirably it is easy to forget that he is only a man. Scarcely even that.’ The Steward paused. ‘The young master is very like his predecessor. Clever, and judicious. But quite determined. Single-minded. Focused.’

‘Wilful, you mean.’ Sebastian smiled thinly. 

The boy saw things as a game. His life, his business, his decisions. Pieces on a board; only a series of moves and plans.

Sebastian was playing along, of course, but his game was quite different. His game was the boy himself. A complex little toy. Like one of those cunning Japanese puzzle boxes, or a Medici prince’s desk-- full of sliding panels and hidden locks and clockwork springs. And inside would be the treasure itself. 

Just what the treasure would be depends on the owner, of course. Secret documents in a general’s campaign desk, or gold in a miser’s trunk. And the hidden centre of the Earl of Phantomhive would be well worth opening.

Sebastian shrugged. ‘Our young master errs on the side of stubbornness.’

Mr Tanaka’s face did not relax, but his eyes were warmer. ‘Perhaps. It is not for me to say.’

‘Perhaps he needs to hear it, then.’ Sebastian put down the pen. Aligned it with the edge of the notepad. Turned back to face the old man, and folded his arms deliberately. ‘It might provide him with a little equilibrium.’

‘Perhaps. I would advise you to do it before he succumbs to another of his moods.’

Sebastian raised his brows. ‘Ah. I am not sure that it is my place to relay such a thing, Mr Tanaka.’

‘You are the head butler of this family, Sebastian. You are the young master’s public servant, and his private one. This falls within your duties.’

And the old man was getting to his feet. Collecting himself with an air of abstraction that Sebastian could see directly through; it was another moment. Buying time. Gauging a reaction. 

Sebastian would have done the same thing.

‘Very well,’ he said deliberately. ‘I will speak to him, Mr Tanaka.’

‘Yes,’ said Tanaka, and there was something steady about his face that might have intimidated a human.

Sebastian finished his work after the old man left; the pantry inventory. The decanting of drygoods. He didn’t go back upstairs that afternoon.

Because his master had to rest, of course, and ought not be disturbed.

He carried up a dish of soup for the boy’s dinner, though he knew quite well the boy would only eat a few mouthfuls, and he made no mention of baths or work or Mr Tanaka while he stoked up the fire. 

Agni would approve, surely.

And his master was still curled up, limp and a little too flushed against his pillow, his eyes closed. Stubbornly.

Sebastian paused at the bedside. ‘Ring for me, sir, if there is anything you should need.’

And then he left the too-quiet bedroom, and went back to work.

Three hundred panes of glass, the conservatory had. Three hundred and twelve; and they were quite spotless when the chilly dawn light finally fell across them.

The boy ate his breakfast, at least. A piece of toast. 

He didn’t raise his eyes from his plate, though.

‘I shall run you a bath, my lord.’

There was no answer. But his master didn’t resist when Sebastian carried him into the bathroom, and out of it again, and dressed him in his day clothes.

There was little point in it, though; the boy wasn’t fit for work this morning.

Sebastian broke the silence carefully as he tied the silken cords of his master’s eye-patch.

‘Today is Monday, my lord.’

He felt the boy’s shoulders move. A sigh, or a shrug. 

‘It’s quite likely.’

‘Your guests arrive tomorrow.’ _And the kitchen is in chaos. Bard hasn’t stopped swearing since he woke up. Finny can’t find enough daffodils to fill the vases._

‘Yes,’ said his master.

And the boy sat down on his bed again, and reached for the book on his commode.

Sebastian left in silence.

His master didn’t ring for tea at ten; but Sebastian took it up. 

‘What do you want now?’ His master’s small voice, brittle as frost. Composed. Beautifully calm. The boy had climbed back into his bed. Only the hump of his tucked-up knees was visible beneath the covers, and the gaudy cover of the magazine. Beeton’s Christmas Annual. The fading print. The corners softened with long handling. It was several years old, now. 

There were other books scattered on the covers around him. _The Moonstone._ A collection of stories by Poe.

Ah; all mysteries. 

‘I am simply checking on your progress, sir.’

The boy’s hair was tangled. Sebastian wondered if he should brush it again. The usual routine of smooth silken strokes, the zip of static from the boar-hair brush, the fine slide of it between his gloved fingers.

‘Don’t bother.’ A page turned. The scratch of pencils. The earl was taking notes.

Something squirmed beneath Sebastian’s ribs. Had he misjudged his master?

Perhaps he had unfolded too much, one too many locks of the little puzzle box. And perhaps the toy was empty inside.

He’d never imagined the child might prove to be a disappointment.

‘You are hard at work, my lord.’

‘More entertaining than cleaning windows, I dare say.’

Quite right.

The boy was talking, at least. Sebastian knew what to do with that.

‘And what is the subject of your research this morning?’

‘The application of ratiocination.’ The small fingers tapped the cover of the book beside him, but the mismatched eyes didn’t rise from the page in front of him. ‘Small mysteries. And bigger ones.’

Sebastian paused. ‘It’s only fiction, young master. The cleverness of the detective agent is an illusion.’

‘Conjured by the writer.’ The boy looked up and his eyes were fixed, bright. ‘The writer must contain the whole picture. They contain the characters and the plot and the denouement. To win a game of chess one must have the whole game played already in one’s head. Your moves, and your opponents. Every possibility.’

‘I see.’ He could listen. It was his duty to witness his master, in every mood. Even this one.

‘It’s like _that._ It’s exactly like that.’

The earl’s words were quick, light. Almost as though he were speaking to himself. But his eyes darted back to Sebastian.

‘I shall bring you something to eat, my lord.’

‘Shortbread.’

‘Sir?’

The flutter of a turning page. ‘With hot cocoa.’

The earl was hungry. That was something. And Sebastian knew what to do with hunger, too. 

He went downstairs and fetched his master’s food. And when he returned he fulfilled his other duties, too; he stoked up the low coal fire, and re-filled the water glass on his master’s bedside commode, and rearranged up the pillows on the bed.

Sebastian leaned over him, settling the bedding behind the boy. At his shoulder. 

The earl sat forwards to allow it, while Sebastian plumped the feather pillow. And he settled his slim shoulders back into the billowing linen behind him. He didn’t even tense. He was intent on his page. He didn’t raise his eyes, not once.

Sebastian stood a moment, looking. 

He’d already taken the boy. He’d pinned him squirming to the bed and fucked him. And here he was, composed. Somewhere else. 

Sebastian bit his lip on the staircase back down, and found that his lip stung. He'd bitten it too many times this morning. 

He tried again at lunch-time, when he took up the dish of warm soup.

‘I trust the research is going well, sir.’

‘Of course. Hedging.’

The earl’s thoughts were scattered this afternoon.

‘It is natural to be concerned about Her Majesty’s mission, sir.’

‘I’m not worried.’ Carefully.

‘No, sir.’

‘I have a plan.’

‘I am sure you do, my lord.’

‘Nothing is left to fate.’

Sebastian bowed. ‘I do not believe in fate, my lord; only competence, and the power of an efficient timetable.’

‘Then we shall have no problems.’ The boy’s voice was curt from the shadows. ‘You have both of those things. And I have you.’ He sighed. ‘What did I miss yesterday? This morning? My appointments.’

‘Nothing much, sir.’ Sebastian eyed him warily. ‘Mr Tanaka wished to talk to you about one of the farms along the Eastbourne road. They’ve been working on the roads.’

‘I know. In January one of the London postal coaches went over the riverbank in the dark, down past the bridge. Unsurprising with all the rain we’ve had, but a nuisance.’

‘Yes.’ He hesitated. ‘I believe this is concerning their plans to repair the hedges down by the bridge. There will be no problem. It is not in any area that will be noticed by your visitors.’

‘I am not in the mood for visitors. This is an imposition.’

 _And a duty_ , thought Sebastian, but he waited.

‘Pointless.’

The butler was packing up the tray. The empty plate, the hollow porcelain bowl still warm with the vanished broth, with his master’s scent.

‘But it isn’t.’ The boy’s voice trailed on. Sebastian heard the huff. Almost a sigh. ‘The Watchdog works for the Queen. The Watchdog has liberties, certain powers. They always have. How they managed without demonic intervention might just be the greatest mystery of them all. It is my duty, though.’

The boy wasn’t speaking to his servant. Only to himself. A reminder. He needed to hear it. There was nobody else to tell him.

Sebastian paused, the tray poised in his hands. ‘Mr Tanaka asked after you, sir.’

‘My health is no business of his. So long as I’m doing my job.’

‘His loyalty is to your family, my lord; to your household, your position, and your name. As such, his interest in your health is tied to his duty, also.’

‘Well.’ The brief flash of the boy’s eye was almost amused. ‘I am fortunate to be surrounded by such loyalty.’

‘Indeed.’ Sebastian kept his voice hushed. ‘What a very lucky boy.’

There was silence. And then: ‘What did he say?’

Unconcerned. Except he’d _asked_.

‘Mr Tanaka said that my lord is very much like his predecessor.’ Sebastian paused. ‘The notion appears to please him.’

‘Hmph,’ said the boy. ‘Bring me another plate of shortbread.’

It was mid-afternoon when the bell rang from the bedroom, and Sebastian was in the middle of overseeing the linen closet. He could hear it from here, the insistent peal. 

The laundry was a haze of steam and lavender-scented foam and Mey-rin’s fogged-up spectacles moved somewhere in the heart of it. 

‘Call me if you need me,’ Sebastian said to her tersely, but he knew already that nobody in this hollow house needed him as much as the child upstairs.

He found his master standing in the middle of the bedroom. Tapping his foot, imperious.

‘Perhaps you should return to bed, sir.’

‘They’re repairing the hedge beside the river?’

Sebastian looked at him keenly. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘They’ll have to hurry, the hawthorn is budding already. The hedges won’t survive the last frosts if they’re being cut back.’

When had the earl ever cared for the niceties of British hedge management?

Sebastian answered in his freshly-starched voice, though. He must be careful in all things. ‘I’m sure the Steward and the farm manager will be aware of that, sir.’

‘The bridge in the valley. Yes?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘We’ll go and see it.’

‘I shall send Mr Tanaka down to inspect the finished--’

‘No,’ said the boy. ‘ _We_ shall go and see. Today. At once.’ 

‘Ah. In that case, I shall prepare the coach and--’

‘Horses.’ The boy folded his arms. ‘I’m going to ride. No point wasting the sunshine. I’m going to need my riding habit. This is an order.’

‘Sir.’ Sebastian paused. And bowed. ‘Yes, my lord.’

He smiled to himself as he switched on the light in the earl’s dressing room and threw open the wardrobe doors. His master’s temper had improved, then. Or focused, at least. And another change of clothes: that was an unexpected pleasure. He hadn’t contemplated this. 

But when he returned to the bedside his master was clearly in a hurry, and Sebastian had no time to savour it. 

The boy’s narrow shoulders were tense when Sebastian slipped off his master’s plush velvet jacket and pulled on the tailored woollen one, and he held still while Sebastian buttoned the high waist of the cream-coloured riding breeches and smoothed the fabric over the slim thighs. 

The earl batted his hand away and glanced up with a huff. ‘You needn’t bother with field boots, it’s not a bloody royal appointment. My hunt boots will be quite enough.’

Sebastian fetched them. Not so shapely as the boy’s field boots with their ankle lacing, but more practical for jumps, for a quick jaunt over the spring fields.

It had been several months since his master had worn them.

The butler knelt, holding the first one steady on his lap. And felt his breath catch as the slim little foot jammed in the long leather shaft of the boot. The boy had grown again. Only fractionally, of course, the merest inch of width across his chest. His shoulders. Sebastian had seen it in the tailor’s notes last month. It was slow but very sure, the long swoop of progression, an inch in six months. An adult in a breath of time.

Sebastian sat back on his heels.

The earl was stamping his foot on the ground, working his foot into the boot properly. Stamping again, twice for good measure.

‘Do hurry up, you’re dawdling.’

Sebastian stood slowly. ‘Sir?’

‘And you’re making that face again.’

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. ‘Which face, exactly?’ He heard his own voice, clear and dangerous.

‘ _That_ one. Come along.’ The door was flung open. 

His master’s little heels clicked down the hallway, sharp as hailstones on glass. 

Sebastian followed thoughtfully, all the way to the low stone stables. 

He saddled the horse while the boy paced outside on the cobblestones-- Antony, the Earl of Phantomhive’s fine black gelding, all long black legs and anxious wide eyes.

He didn’t saddle one for himself. He didn’t need to. His master would not approve. And likely only one of the coach horses would manage it; Ransom or his harness-mate Tempest, with his solid legs and strong back and the deep ugly glint in his eyes. 

Sebastian liked it. He liked the flinch of fear that rippled their velvet skin when he spoke to them, low and steady as he brushed them down. A horse wouldn’t need strength to carry him; Sebastian didn’t weigh as much as any man should. He carried himself lightly. But the beast would need a different kind of strength, and Antony was uneasy already at his touch.

He led the fine creature out into the fitful sunlight of the courtyard.

‘You took your time.’

‘Perhaps I could perform to my lord’s satisfaction if my lord’s household had either a stable-hand or a footman-- or both, if my lord was inclined to approach conventionality.’

‘When have I ever, Sebastian?’ 

Antony nickered unhappily at the end of the reins, and the boy glanced up at the horse as he pulled on his black leather gloves. ‘Somebody’s in a foul mood.’ 

‘He’ll take it,’ said Sebastian. ‘He’ll do exactly as he’s told.’

‘They don’t like you very much. Do they know?’

Sebastian didn’t turn as he held his master’s stirrup steady. ‘Perhaps. They have strong instincts. They can smell.’

‘Smell what?’ The boy swung himself up into the saddle. ‘Sulphur and brimstone?’

‘Domination.’ 

He expected a glare for that. But the boy only looked back down at him, his eyes sharp, and looped the reins loosely over his arm as he settled his black derby hat more firmly on his head. 

Sebastian handed up his master’s riding crop. 

He hadn’t seen the boy like this for many months. Too vivid, too tense. 

‘Horses are pack animals,’ the earl was saying. ‘They know how to respect mastery.’

‘And that is why I always try to remind you, my lord. Maintain your dignity.’

The earl’s glance could have peeled paint from a wall. ‘I know.’ Slow with contempt. ‘ _Maintain your dignity. If you flinch, you lose._ ’

There was a sudden sing-song lightness in the boy’s voice. Was his master _mocking_ him?

He was. Oh, the little brat _was_.

He’d listened, though, to his servant’s instructions. He sat erect in the saddle, a princely little thing. And Antony was much too big for him, but the way he _held_ himself. The way he reined the beast in.

‘Keep up, Sebastian.’

And the boy was gone.

Sebastian’s eyes followed the flutter of the little dark jacket. 

_Keep up._

The child couldn’t outrun him if he tried.

But he was trying.

Sebastian didn’t rush himself as he made his way down the gravel drive and over the edge of the garden to the woodland. Down towards the river, the bridge, the empty fields. 

He was silent; the pheasants hardly stirred in the bracken as he passed. The air smelt of moss and water. Clean, empty. The mortal earth was sweet in spring. The ground had thawed nicely.

He scented the deer before they could scent him, and he moved downwind of them. Long habit.

He stopped at the ridge along the road and listened; and there was the clatter of hooves, somewhere below, and his master’s heat burned at the edge of his mind like the trail of a star.

Here was the field. 

And Sebastian ducked through the last stand of dripping elms and slithered down the wet bank of the road without even muddying the toes of his oxfords.

He was waiting by the bare winter hedge when he heard the dull thunder of Antony’s hooves in damp turf and then his master arrived, pulling up his reins, his small cheeks rosy with exertion and his mouth quite sour.

‘Hmm.’ 

Sebastian bowed.

And his master might pretend to be disappointed that his servant hadn’t failed, but failure wouldn’t satisfy him either. The butler was here to fulfil his duty.

And then the earl was inspecting the hedge. The bare branches, half-pruned, naked in their early spring state, showing the twine of their branches and the interlacing of their root systems. Hawthorn, hazelnut. Black thorn. Dog rose. Beech, and the glossy prickle of holly. Not one species, but an entire forest in miniature, so closely entwined that one couldn’t be cut without damaging another. Nothing in this odd little world existed in a solitary state.

‘It was the cattle.’ 

‘So Mr Tanaka reports, sir. They have been breaking through the hedge all winter. Despite all the thorns that they might encounter. Now why--’ Sebastian turned his gaze up to the boy on horseback. ‘Why would any creature endure such discomfort without good reason?’

‘Hmm.’ The boy twisted in the saddle to look around the field. It was flat, green, ankle-deep in wet grass. Unremarkable. Squarish. He turned back and scratched his cheek with the leather-bound butt of his riding crop. He was frowning at the bare hedge branches, but his eyes were unfocused. ‘Water.’

‘The stream runs along the bottom of the field over there, quite accessible to the beasts. And this field which they find so desirable has no access to the stream at all.’

‘Feed.’

‘They are supplemented with hay, sir. And your pastures have always been sufficiently productive ones.’

‘The bull.’

‘Has been in with his herd for several months. They are kept well-satisfied.’

‘I see.’

And that was all. Survival. Food and sex. All that any simple creature could need, and the boy knew it, and he was frowning still.

‘I shall need to speak with Mr Tanaka about this.’

‘He is in consultation with the farm manager, sir. They can take care of it.’ Sebastian looked back at him. ‘This is hardly a priority.’

‘Perhaps not for you. I don’t expect you to understand a master’s responsibilities.’

‘This is not your responsibility either, my lord.’

The boy looked at him. His lips pursed tightly, but there was a very strange light in his single blue eye. ‘I don’t expect you to understand these things,’ he said, and he wheeled Antony away towards the road.

Sebastian watched him go. The stiff little figure, spurring the horse into a rolling canter, his crop tucked under his elbow. His back straight.

And he smiled, invisibly in the empty sodden field, and began to make his way home again. By memory. By scent.

The boy was riding well. He was much better than he had been, actually. Nothing like the limp and huddled lump he’d been when they first began this life, master and servant. Child and demon. The boy had worked hard. They both had, the pair of them. Training. Learning. What does a British peer of the realm look like? How does he speak, how does he move? 

And a servant. From the cleanliness of his collar to the gloss on his shoes. They’d worked to get here. Months. He’d told the boy. _I shall be strict._

And the boy had nodded, solemnly. _Earl and butler,_ he'd replied. Too solemn for a child. _We need to hurry. We’re not there yet._

Sebastian hadn’t spared the little brat. And harsh as he had been, his master had equalled him. A critique for everything. Sebastian had learned more than he’d ever planned to. _Cooking_ , crux fuck it. He could even smell it now, the difference between cloves and cardamom. He’d learned the vagaries of the human tongue, the delicate influence of temperature-- why is a dish of ice cream perfectly acceptable to them, while the same cream left to melt becomes too sickly to their stomach?

He was feeling indulgent, this last long stretch of the quiet forest. He walked. He let his master arrive home first.

It didn’t appear to have improved the boy’s mood, though, or Antony’s either; the black horse was looking at the demon when he rejoined the earl in the cloudy courtyard beside the stables. A sideways look. Unsettled.

Sebastian’s fingers twitched. 

He knew very well that he shouldn’t, but the boy was wearing that peculiar sharp frown and really, how could anyone resist?

‘How did you manage coming home, my lord? I do hope he wasn’t too skittish for you.’

‘Fine.’ Abruptly.

Sebastian smiled. He slapped his palm over Antony’s neck and stepped back.

Predictable, ah.

The horse shuddered and reared.

The earl flailed his arms but he was slipping, out of the saddle, over the side of his horse, on his arse in the mud. Grunting. His eyes wide, stunned. 

And then scowling.

‘You did that.’

‘It would appear that Antony is feeling more than usually temperamental this afternoon, sir.’

The boy was getting to his feet. Rubbing his gloved hands on his jacket. 

‘ _You_ did that,’ he repeated. ‘You upset Antony and let me fall.’

‘My deepest apologies, my lord, for failing to anticipate every possible outcome of a highly unpredictable--’

‘You were careless.’ His master spoke quietly, a flat small sound. ‘You overstepped your boundaries.’

He was brushing himself down, but it was pointless; the seat of his breeches was smudged with red mud. 

‘Allow me, sir.’ 

‘Don’t touch me.’ Tiredly. And Sebastian was well acquainted with those words. ‘You really are stupid. Worse than a dog. Worse than a horse. I fell from my saddle once. Do you remember? Last autumn, when we were hunting along the--’

‘You underestimated the height of the jump.’ Sebastian knew he was interrupting his master, it was unforgivable, but he’d had enough. Enough. He smiled, just enough to show the full curve of his teeth. ‘You misjudged, my lord.’

‘Perhaps. Success will always involve risk. And Antony waited by the stile. Do you recall, Sebastian?’

The boy’s contempt was vicious, as though Sebastian would have _forgotten._ Speaking to him too simply. As though he were dim-witted, confused. Human.

And the boy was still spitting words. ‘I thought you were supposed to be loyal.’

Sebastian stopped. ‘I am here, sir.’ He bowed. ‘I am exactly where I ought to be; on hand to brush the mud from your entrancing little riding breeches.' He knelt at the boy's side. 'If you require--’

‘When I fall from my saddle, Antony stops.’ The boy was pushing Sebastian’s hand away, shaking out his jacket. ‘He circles around me. He waits for me to mount again.’

‘He’s a trained animal, sir.’

‘And what are you?’

Good question.

‘Higher form of animal,’ said Sebastian. ‘Significantly longer training.’

‘It hasn’t taught you loyalty.’

And the boy was testing him now. Couldn’t the useless little runt _see_? Sebastian was here. He was still here. It had been years, and he’d been working without rest, without sustenance, with only the barest beginnings of pleasure as his payment. 

Sebastian sat back on his heels, but his gaze didn’t leave the furious small face of his master.

The child asked too much of him.

‘I have told you, sir. I have given you my word. I will not leave your side nor lie to you.’ 

The words hung in the air, humming like the strange calm between storms, and it was both a promise and a threat.

‘You let me fall. What is the _point_ of you?’

Sebastian reached for his master’s hat. The riding crop came down over his wrist.

‘Sir--’ 

‘If you flinch, you lose.’ The earl shrugged his little shoulders. 

The words needled at Sebastian’s mind. They were carefully sharpened. As they should be-- they were his own, after all, turned back on him in the most irritating fashion.

‘Come now, sir.’ Sebastian lowered his voice to a purr, watching his master’s fixed blue eye. ‘You never desired me for my loyalty.’

‘Yes,’ said the boy. ‘I did.’ And the boy tapped his own gloved palm with the crop, a quick smack. The sound spoke so clearly of punishment that Sebastian felt his skin along his spine flinch.

‘You’re still quite a mess, sir.’ He reached to brush at the boy’s knees, and this time his master did not draw back. ‘I shall take more care next time.’

He saw the tightening in his master’s slim shoulders and the small hand twitching before it even moved. And still he wasn’t expecting it.

The riding crop came down on his cheek. His right eye.

He blinked at his master.

The boy’s cheeks were two vivid spots of heat. His eye was a peculiar harsh colour. Sulphuric blue. His soft hair dampened in his furious passion, dark at the temples. 

_That_ was an overreaction. 

Sebastian knew he'd been rude, but it hardly merited this sort of punishment. He’d done worse.

Oh, he’d done _much_ worse.

The whip came down again. Stinging. 

‘You beast.’ The boy’s little gloved hands were shaking. He was almost sobbing in his rage. ‘You filthy fucking thing.’

He’d never looked more beautiful. He brought the crop down again.

And again. And again. Sharp whacks of bound leather. 

Sebastian felt the crawl of pain over his body. He could have raised his hand. Blocked it, stopped it. 

They both knew this. 

He closed his eyes. He felt each blow. He let his master punish him. 

It hurt, of course. His delicate skin, his living flesh. His smouldering pride. He would be able to heal it without too much difficulty, the ripple of his form resettling, absorbing, and the pain would simply turn itself inside out. By the time he got inside, his face would be perfection once again. They both knew this too.

But the boy needed to do this. And he was calming himself already. His eyes were steady again, even if his voice was not. 

‘Even an animal.’ His whisper was a gasp for breath. ‘Even a dog could do more than you.’

‘Are you certain, sir?’ Sebastian touched his gloved fingertips to his cheekbone. Is this what his master wanted? There were three welts, he could feel them. His skin shivered raw. ‘A dog cannot steep a satisfactory brew of Earl Grey.’ 

‘Anyone can make tea.’ The boy blinked. ‘You learned that in eleven weeks. You’re still useless to me.’

And that wasn’t true. Couldn’t possibly be true. Sebastian thought about this as the boy walked away, as he finished hanging up Antony’s gear and followed his master out into the overcast day, back towards the hush and echo of the house. 

When the brat had missed his nap time he couldn’t even make it upstairs without Sebastian carrying him and that was _most_ untrue. There was nobody on this living earth that the Earl of Phantomhive needed more than his butler.

Sebastian knew it. Between their return and dinner, his master rang for him six times. Twice for tea, once for biscuits. Once to fetch a book from the library. Once to carry a stack of files from the cabinet to the desk.

And the final time was at 5:43 pm, and Sebastian waited to hear what else his master needed from him.

‘That hill.’ The boy waved his hand, a vague sweep towards the window. Slim fingers, and the heavy glitter of the sapphire ring caught the light. ‘Behind the house.’

‘It has always been there, sir.’

The boy didn’t react. ‘Is it limestone?’

Sebastian blinked. ‘Well. I-- seeing as the geology of the southern downs of England consists chiefly of chalk, that is a distinct possibility.’ They were called the Chalk Downs. That much was simple.

‘Yes or no?’

‘I would have to do a little research on the matter, my lord.’

The boy put down his pen. ‘You don’t know?’

‘Not yet, sir. Give me two minutes in the library and I--’

‘I thought you knew everything.’ It was actual surprise, unless the boy was acting _very_ well. But Sebastian knew all his expressions. Every little flicker of that flinty small face.

‘Not everything, young master. Perhaps with sufficient time.’ He smiled. But the boy was looking away again.

‘Hmm. No matter, I can find out for myself. Besides the ryegrass varieties, the chief component of our pastures is white clover; that would suggest that the soil composition is alkaline. Fine. Call me for dinner.’

And the boy didn’t speak to him again until after dinner, after the chilly silence in the steaming bathroom, after Sebastian had dressed his master’s stiff little body-- stiff, resisting as a peg-jointed doll-- oh, then the boy spoke.

‘You were wrong.’ Flatly. Rude enough to provoke a question.

‘About what in particular, sir?’ Sebastian stood beside his master’s bed, hanging the bath-towel over his arm. ‘Or is it more a general and pervasive sense of wrongness that irritates you?’

‘You were wrong about the hill.’

Sebastian stopped. ‘Oh?’

‘The landscape in the area is indeed limestone. Alkaline. Apart from the ridge here, down along the road, which is clearly rich in iron. The soil beneath it is quite oxidised. The stains on my riding kit were red.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian waited. ‘I shall take your word for it, sir.’

‘A few months ago, one of the farms on the Eastbourne Road had to pull a postal coach out of the river. They dredged the entire stretch of the river afterwards, churning up the sediment, including several centuries of run-off from the ridge above it. Iron-rich water, much more acidic than usual. The heavy rain carried it downstream to our farms. Cattle can endure acidic water. Clover cannot.’

‘Oh.’ Sebastian stood up straighter. ‘The cattle broke through their enclosure into the only field which has no access to the river.’

‘The only one which still had a reliable supply of clover growing in the grass.’ The boy rubbed his fingers absently through his damp hair. ‘They risked their skins amongst the blackthorns in order to secure their favourite delicacy.’

Sebastian breathed out slowly. 

The boy’s thoughts weren’t scattered, after all; only wide-ranging. But they drew together in the end, threads in a fistful of rope. 

Turns in a maze. Tumblers in a lock.

Good. Oh, very good. Clever little thing.

The earl sat down on the edge of his bed and crossed his legs. Smoothed his nightgown over his lap. ‘You may tell Mr Tanaka to open the gates and allow the cattle to graze the unaffected field until the pasture has a chance to recover itself. In the meantime, perhaps a top dressing of lime on the grass will restore the natural balance of things.’

Sebastian bowed. ‘Of course, sir.’ He felt it again, the odd unravelling within his body. He should never have doubted his strange small master. ‘I shall speak to him this evening.’

‘Where are you going?’

Sebastian stopped again. Something surged between his fingertips and his cock. An ache. ‘It is your bedtime, sir.’

‘That’s not an answer. I didn’t tell you to leave.’

And his master waited on the edge of the bed, his hands folded in his lap, and Sebastian knelt for him.

He knelt, and waited while the brat fastened the heavy leather collar around his neck. Just a little too tightly. He felt the strain of it when he swallowed, when he moved his shoulders.

And the boy was quiet for him, this time. Spreading his legs. 

Sebastian was gentle. He pulled off his glove, and the silken skin of his master’s thigh was hot enough to scorch his mind. He used two fingers only, delicately around the tender little hole; there would be time for more soon. 

‘It stings.’ Shortly. A wriggle under his outspread hand.

‘Hush.’

‘It stings.’

And Sebastian raised one brow, his patience gone, and snarled. ‘You shouldn’t tell me such a thing, sir. It hardly entices me to gentleness.’

Silent but not still, the impatient small body. And when Sebastian growled he felt it hum against the leather collar. 

He sat up. Unbuckled it. The boy was watching him, wide-eyed, but making no protest. 

And Sebastian fastened the collar around his master’s legs. Tight around the slim little thighs, digging tight into the soft flesh, buckled just above his bony knees. Eighteen inches. What a _tiny_ little master he was.

And he pulled up the braided leash and wrapped it around the boy’s wrists-- pinned them, flailing, and then they were secured. 

The boy was silent. Despising it. Of course. But bound and waiting and _submitting._

And then, rolled onto his side, how delicious. The swell of his rump, flushed thighs and soft sac pressed between. His knees drawn up and hands pulled into his lap and feet thrashing, helpless, and his mouth wet and open and crying and Sebastian looked down at him in some surprise.

His master was screaming. He’d hardly noticed. _Swearing_ at him, straining against the binding leather.

It was a large house and the closest soul was two floors down but really. Somebody might hear.

Sebastian put his hand to the wet red mouth. Slippery lips, soft tongue inside. 

‘Bastard,’ said the boy. He was glaring. His eyes were hot, wide under tumbled hair. ‘Untie my bloody _hands_ before--’

Sebastian pushed his fingers in. The boy was biting him but he’d thought he probably would. And it was muffled, and the demon pushed deeper, and heard the gagging choke.

And then he could slide his other hand down, slowly, warm silken back and plump buttocks, and find the squeeze of the little hole, blush-dark, and finger him quietly. The boy was gnawing at Sebastian’s knuckles. Sobbing. 

Sebastian’s cock was arching again at his open flies. Never enough hands, are there? He pulled his fingers from the boy’s soft hole and sighed. Unbuttoned quickly.

And the boy was shaking, almost silent, his mouth still open but not squealing any more.

Sebastian steadied himself on his knees and pushed his cock-head into the damp little hole. Just the head, a glisten of wet within the straining lips, and then the sudden ease in and he heard the boy’s whimpering breath.

Sebastian sighed. 

There was nothing better. Nothing better. His master could have raised his voice in protest but he was only moaning, pressed full and gasping.

The demon let his eyes sink closed as he pushed deeper. Folding the warm little body under him, close enough to breathe the damp rosewater scent of his master’s hair, and he was heavy enough to pin the hot limbs nicely as he fucked him. That was very good, for quite some time.

Good. Not perfect.

When Sebastian stopped to unbuckle the collar, he found that the thick leather had left a welt of red over his master’s pale thighs. He bent to lick at it, feeling the heated skin raised under his tongue.

And then he could settle the boy onto his back and drag the little hips close against his, and pull the slim dangling legs apart. Curl the warm body up. And the demon pushed himself back inside, watching the glossy stretch of the boy’s pink hole, wet and tight as lips around him. 

His master’s eyes were nearly black and his sounds stirred through Sebastian’s body, brought sweat to his skin, his soft raw animal sounds. Grunts. The deep noises a mortal makes when you thump your fist in their guts and watch them crumple but the child was doing it now, his wet lips parted, his eyes unfocused and each blow pulling another breath from his chest.

 _Deeper_ roared the blood through Sebastian’s head. Deeper, those rough little grunts, and he rolled into his master’s rump and saw the breathless slide between the narrow hips, his own cockhead moving beneath the boy’s skin, the distension of the little belly as the demon shoved himself into the clench of flesh.

His knees were shaking.

He settled deeper between the boy’s thighs and collapsed into the mattress, his fists in the sheets, and rolled in harder. 

There. Ah. That’s what he’d wanted. What he’d wanted, the utter perfection of it. 

It felt better than anything had a right to, the wave that trembled down his spine and blinded him. The air was quivering. He tried to hold still, tried to ride it softly, but he was long past gentleness.

He gasped sharply. 

The wet, the tremble.

And the aftershock was painful in this form. Worse than the flex of flesh that shifted his form. This body anchored him, hot and visceral, thrumming and bright and heavy already.

The demon hissed. It was lucky the boy was silent. He wouldn’t have been able to answer if he tried.

When Sebastian stirred himself again, his master’s eyes were half-closed. The lashes were wet. He saw the jump of the boy’s frail chest, the sharp edge of his master’s collarbone.

He bumped at the soft chin with his nose. 

The boy’s lashes moved heavily, as though he were drugged. 

The demon bent his head to the salt heat of the boy’s flushed neck, the curve of his shoulder. He nipped lightly. A pinch of his canines. And the soft skin didn’t even flinch under him. Not a sound from his master’s open lips. Only the boy’s tender body answered, a sharp squeeze around his cock. 

The demon pulled out of the heated shiver, his hands curling into the mattress.

He watched his master. Watched the darkened slide of the boy’s gaze, unseeing over the shadowed room. He waited a long time, watching. And he’d been in many empty rooms, empty halls, temples and ruins, but nothing had felt as solitary as this.

He was alone in the room.

‘My lord.’

The eyes didn’t move back to him. Didn’t even blink. His master wasn’t answering, though Sebastian could see the small fingers were twitching on the covers.

His fingers burned to stir the boy’s soft body, to take him by the neck and shake him.

He sat up. He wiped the smear of wet from the boy’s smooth belly with a bunched handful of the linen sheet, and then his master was sighing. Stirring.

Sebastian let out a long breath.

He bent to brush the hair from his master’s eye, and the boy twisted away from his touch. A writhe like a trapped rabbit’s.

The unearthly clear eyes were open, and far too sharp.

‘You must not touch me so easily.’

Sebastian straightened up, poised on the edge of the bed. He ought to run the bath. Or perhaps the boy would allow him another few moments. Half an hour more. ‘It is my duty, sir.’

‘You know precisely what I mean.’ The boy gasped, and drew himself upright. Yawned. ‘Don’t play the fool, it doesn’t suit you. We have guests arriving in the morning and you will show restraint. Understood?’

‘Restraint.’ It was almost amusing, the little sparrow-puff of his chest. The arrogance in his pretty face. As if he wasn’t sitting cross-legged, naked in his bed, his body still flushed pink. 

And the boy continued. Reaching for his nightgown. ‘Your chief duty is to oversee the staff. They will be unsure of themselves, and look to you for management.’ Muffled as he pulled it over his head. ‘Your place will be with Mey-rin and Bard, and I expect you to prove an exemplary role model to them.’

‘My place is at your heels, sir.’ He looked down at his master. ‘If I am to guard you. We are both aware of how much danger will be stirred by this.’

‘Your place is where I point, Sebastian.’ The boy was pulling his blankets over his legs and settling his ruffled head back into his pillows. ‘You will not touch me without permission. You will not speak to me except on business matters, and you must not look directly at me. You must not--’

‘I am aware of the protocols, young master.’ Sebastian didn’t hide the heat in his eyes. ‘Having advised you of many of them during the past few years.’

‘Marvellous. And are you capable of following them?’

‘Most capable, sir.’ 

‘Glad to hear it. Clean up your mess and get out of my room.’

The boy closed his eyes. Sebastian looked at the distant small face; clean and sharp, like something cut from ivory. He could almost feel it. A hard little nub of ivory like a chess-piece between his fingers.

His throat tightened. He wasn’t finished talking. He wasn’t finished fucking. He wasn’t done here.

‘Now, Sebastian.’

He was done here. 

He buttoned his trousers. Pulled his black tailcoat back on. Left his master’s chamber, closing the door in perfect silence, and he paused in the midnight hallway outside to straighten his tie.

Focused, obedient.

His fingers scarcely trembled at all.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to Sinnergy for the perspicacious beta...
> 
> And thank you all for your patience and your support-- I hope it was worth the wait. I'm looking forward to bringing you the Wordsmith in the next update ^^
> 
> **The new chapter will be posted on October 13. Thanks to everyone for your patience this month-- I'm trying to be disciplined and hArD-wOrKiNg and actually get some of my neglected original fiction written. If I ever want to be a PUBLISHED WRITER apparently I have to write something more than just hopeful ideas in a word doc and I think that's SUPER UNFAIR. But I'm trying. And I'll be excited to return to Prepositions after my break.**


	16. circiter {about}

**********************

Dawn.

It might have been half-past four; Sebastian was listening to the stir of sparrows outside the kitchen windows in the vast steaming silence.

He didn’t raise his eyes from the scones as he rolled the dough together lightly, the merest tip-touch of his gloved fingers in the sticky mess. Scones are simple, but there’s half a second’s stirring between wet dough and an overworked lump.

The simplest things are the greatest test.

It was a quarter to five, perhaps; there were still stars showing in the dark. 

He glanced at the clock. Ten past five. 

Damn this spring darkness, this slow-rising sun and northern night. 

Sebastian didn’t think about other places he had known, the dry warm coast of Spain or the clean sea that hemmed the bare Greek islands, because then he would begin to make a list of all the places on this pitiful planet that he would rather be standing at this very moment; and there would be no list at all.

How could there be? This thing wasn’t over. It would wear him to bone, and there would be no leaving it.

He was preparing a brace of pheasants for roasting when he heard Bard’s boots in the corridor.

‘Going to be a big one, hey, Sebastian? Guests in the house.’

The butler only shrugged as he plucked, a stray feather drifting near his nose. He sneezed viciously. ‘Get yourself some breakfast. The schedule’s on the door.’

The kitchen came to life around him. The rattle and heat of the coal-fired ovens, Finny’s chatter from the staff table as the others bolted down their breakfast. Mey-rin’s heels on the stone floor, and the thump of Bard’s knife-blade on the chopping board.

The guests wouldn’t arrive until evening, but it would be a long day. 

Sebastian slid the tip of his knife into the dangling neck of the plucked pheasant. He pushed thumb and finger into the raw pink cavity and tugged, a quick tumble of glistening guts across the cold marble slab.

A long day. A long week.

He took his master’s breakfast up at the stroke of eight. 

The boy was awake and sitting up in his bed, picking the grit from his lashes. Rubbing his eye with a sigh, his blurred violet eye; impatient for his tea. Taking his newspaper in silence.

He scanned the Financial pages, and then the crime columns, and folded the thing away again. ‘How are things in the kitchen?’

‘Managed, sir.’

‘I should hope so.’

The earl of Phantomhive had no further questions. He had no need of them; he trusted his servant’s word. He finished eating his scones. 

And Sebastian filled his master’s bath. 

He washed the boy in silence, the hot water sluicing over the slim young shoulders, and the warm air swam with perfume. Rosewater, heady and delicate. Beneath it his own animal scent still smeared heavy over the boy’s skin, but it was fading already in the splash and ripple of the water.

The boy’s body was fair and slippery-wet. So easily these things washed clean from him. What would it take to leave a mark here?

Sebastian breathed in sharply. And out again, restless.

Next time he would hold his master tighter. Push him harder, leave bruises in his fresh skin. Perhaps he would bite him again, slowly this time. Tasting him properly. For now he could only watch, devour the boy’s body with his eyes, that distant little body with its careless fine limbs. As distant as it had ever been; and this thought swam like a fish, a slither too quick for blinking in Sebastian’s mind.

There were other things to think about today. And maybe he was learning to do as the boy did, to separate these thoughts into their individual caskets and lock them tightly.

At the young master’s open wardrobe, Sebastian frowned and paused.

The earl’s selection of clothing was still sadly depleted; the attack from the Baron’s Circus performers had left its mark. The destruction in this wing of the house had been repaired in a few hours, stone and glass and paint, but Sebastian couldn’t replace the little suits so easily.

That was something to look forward to, though; the tidy stacked boxes, the unwrapping of fresh shirts from gilt paper.

The butler sighed as he selected silk stocking from the shelf and returned to his master’s bedside.

The boy waited patiently as he was undressed, and stepped into his shorts. When he sat down on the bed again he bent, rubbing at his ankle absently, and there, _ah_ \-- a bruise showing over his hip. The mark of Sebastian’s fingertips.

The demon reached out his hand and slid it over the curve of the slim bare back.

The boy straightened, knocking his hand away. ‘No more of that.’ 

‘Sir--’

‘I don’t have time for your nonsense.’ 

Which was ‘I don’t have time for _you_ ’ as clear as if he’d said it; arrogant small thing.

As if he’d have time for anything without Sebastian running things. Sebastian _was_ time; he was clock and key and pen and schedule and everything his master needed, waiting within reach, foreseen and uncalled-for.

The butler paused, and tried once more. His fingertip found the boy’s cheek, pulling a tangled flick of hair from his master’s eye. 

This time the boy didn’t pull away from the touch. He blinked up at Sebastian. ‘This rain will wash out the roads.’ Absent. Anxious. A lord worried over his little fiefdom.

And Sebastian could give the earl his momentary illusion. 

‘I shall see to it.’

He restrained himself as he completed his task, and didn’t permit his hands to linger on thigh or hip or chin.

Tailored shorts. Crisp cotton shirt. Black silk waistcoat, cut low on the boy’s slim chest. And the jacket. Woodland green, fine Harris herringbone wool with a collar in black velvet; a country wool, a nod to the hunting that they _would_ be doing if the earl were not a semi-reclusive eccentric. 

They still might if the weather held out. 

Which it wouldn’t.

Sebastian smoothed down the soft fabric over the boy’s shoulder. ‘This one at least still fits you.’

‘Miss Hopkins will have the new clothing here soon,’ said the boy. ‘A few weeks at most.’

‘You have not made an appearance in your role as Earl for quite some time, sir. This occasion is almost as momentous as the day of your induction.’

A pity his court dress would be inappropriate today; that particular outfit had been exquisite. The sash, the slim little sword. Black velvet pumps. A boy playing at soldiers in the Queen’s halls.

‘Hmph. Strangers. Tiresome.’

‘ _Noblesse oblige_ , sir. Your title is not simply for show. The earl of this household will always have responsibilities as lord of the manor.’ The child was only half listening, but it was rather lovely; his mind was still and open, a stream. And Sebastian could set his words like little paper boats on the surface, and watch them spinning away. ‘Five hundred years ago, I would have fitted you with chain mail beneath your clothing, sir.’

‘Like a medieval knight.’

‘Or perhaps tightly-woven silk, such as the princes of Europe wear against their skin to thwart bullets.’

The boy’s smooth brow creased. ‘Do they?’

‘Indeed. And I would dress you thus if I were a good servant, sir.’

‘And why do you not, then?’

‘Because anyone can be a good servant. But only I can be a perfect one.’

The earl said nothing as Sebastian fastened the silk rosette at his master’s bare white throat. As he combed the soft hair, and tucked it back to tie the eye-patch.

‘Your cane, sir.’ He held it ready. 

And the boy sighed as he reached for it. ‘A sword would be better.’

‘You shall have no need of one while I am here, my lord. You are as prepared as you can be.’

‘I’m not afraid. I shall be quite safe.’ Which was true, but the brat didn’t even seem to doubt it. ‘Belted, girdled.’ The boy tucked the cane beneath his elbow. ‘And armed.’

And he looked up at Sebastian. Actually, properly, a slow direct gaze. ‘It’s going to be a dangerous few days. I shall have need of you.’

Sebastian hesitated. And bowed. ‘My lord…’

‘Call me when it's time. I’ll be in the study.’

The room still smelled of rosewater when he left.

Sebastian tidied the master’s chambers. Changed the sheets, pulling off the stained linen with a sharp breath of regret. 

There would be no lessons today. Perhaps the boy would be back working at his accounts, calculating over a table of figures and the map of Europe unrolled on his desk.

Perhaps he was simply reading, tucked up beside the hush of the rain-smeared windows. His book open on his knee, gilt lettering and crisp pages, and the sordid beauty of Baudelaire’s Fleurs du Mal floating in his overheated little mind.

Sebastian would never know. 

He didn’t see his master until the boy’s quick luncheon, a plate of sandwiches at his desk.

And then followed the endless afternoon of airing guest bedrooms and polishing the glassware and setting aspic jellies to cool in the larder.

Bard paused to chat on the hallway landing, tapping an unlit cigarette against his cheek. ‘We’re making good time, hey?’

Sebastian stopped too. ‘Good enough,’ he said. ‘There’s not much more Finny can do with the garden, so if you get a moment send him down to check on the driveway. The rain might have washed out the gravel.’

‘Will do,’ said Bard, and he was whistling as he headed down the stairs.

Would it be excruciating pain to be mortal? To channel the entirety of one’s boundless being into a fragile husk, a single dimension of existence, without memory or awareness?

Or perhaps it would be very simple. A clean bright whistle in the evening air. Fragmentary, ignorant. Sweet.

Sebastian changed his gloves again.

And he was setting out the champagne coupes when Finny burst into the kitchen. 

‘They’re here, they’re coming.’

Too soon, not soon enough; two weeks of preparation. A blur of a day. Distant wheels hissed on the road already, a stir outside the house.

Sebastian put down his dishcloth. ‘You know what to do,’ he said to Bard, which is the only thing he could say at this point. They all knew their duties, and he must leave them to it, as lightly as if he trusted them. As easily as if he weren’t itching to manage everything himself.

And he went upstairs to find his master in the study.

He could hear the boy’s voice behind the door.

‘Hm. So it’s like that…’ The young master must be on the telephone; that clear small voice. Not so flat for once; there was a lilt to it. Indulgent. ‘This brings the story together. Since I don’t know much about Germany’s domestic affairs.’

So it was another of the Watchdog’s contacts; one of the Aristocrats of Evil. The earl was drawing the net in tight around his guests.

And he was hanging up already, and Sebastian opened the door without knocking. ‘Young master. It’s time.’

The boy pushed back his chair with a sigh. His toes barely touched the carpet. ‘Yes. I’m coming.’

The rain came down, a spatter over the windows in the hallway as earl and servant paused at the top of the stairway. The courtyard beside the house was busy with coaches. The front door was open, and the hum of voices drifted up to them.

What is the best way to descend into a certain trap?

‘Well,’ said the boy. He tapped his cane on the floor beside him. A sigh of resignation. ‘Shall we?’

Sebastian watched him descend, his small head held high, his back straight. A rider’s posture. A nobleman’s son. And he fell into step behind his master as they went downstairs to meet their guests.

They were whispering already in the foyer.

_My lord the Earl._

_Is this him?_

But one guest was distracted, a crumpled young man standing beside the doorway with Lau, and Sebastian heard the drift of Lau's lazy voice.

‘He is either sour or enraged. No middle ground. And he is exceptionally proud.’

And under it the murmur of the other voices.

_It can’t be._

_Have you met him before?_

_Oh, he’s just a child._

The young master paused on the stairs, listening.

‘ _And_ I’ve heard he wears an eye-patch,’ Lau was saying. ‘ _Exactly_ like a pirate.’ 

‘Enough teasing,’ said the earl, and now every single one of them was paying attention as the stiff little thing stepped down the stairs to introduce himself.

Sebastian scarcely had time to notice there were two guests missing before they were at the door-- Lord Georg Von Siemens, and that obnoxious ponce in Her Majesty’s white livery-- and there. They were assembled.

Sebastian stepped away as the earl ushered everyone into the ballroom. He would not be far from his young master this evening, but he had his duty, introducing the cast of this particular little performance. He stifled a smile as he consulted the little guest-list. It could easily be a playwright’s _Dramatis Personae._

MR WOODLEY. Diamond merchant. Arrogant, watchful. 

LORD GEORG VON SIEMENS. Banker. Self-indulgent geriatric pig. 

MR PHELPS. Shipping executive; a wealthy young nobody, son of a wealthy old somebody. 

EARL GREY. Her Majesty’s butler, and the reason the young master was tangled in this mess at all.

MR LAU. An old friend, if they were being charitable.

MR GRIMSBY and MISS DIAZ. Theatre people, with those glossy stage-ready smiles; the young master could learn something.

And the final guest was forgotten, the writer, anxious on the edge of the room as they all swept into the ballroom and the waiting buffet tables. The others were drinking already, chattering, introducing themselves, and Sebastian passed amongst them with his tray of wine. 

But Sebastian was watching this one.

Every guest is important, after all, and too much inequality breeds resentment. Every guest must leave with a favourable impression. This whole occasion was a performance, and this particular rumpled gentleman was fated to be the only critic who mattered.

The man was a Scot, apparently. Arthur Somebody. Youngish. Unacquainted with a hair-brush. Poor as a churchmouse; the elbows of his suit were wearing thin, and it was his best suit, too, or he’d be wearing something else-- tweed was all very well for a morning stroll through the gardens but tonight, for a formal dinner-- 

Just the sort of man who takes in injured puppies, probably. 

And he was watching the room warily. He wasn’t sure why he was here; he was fairly sure he shouldn’t be. But he had a part to play, even if he didn’t know it yet.

Sebastian carried the tray over to where he sat. There was a sudden widening of the man’s eyes, a shock of surprise. And admiration, too; humbled simply by the presence of his host’s head butler.

Interesting.

Sebastian bowed, lowering the tray in invitation.

The man sat wretchedly.

Dear thing. He didn’t know if he was _allowed_. 

Sebastian smiled, very gently. ‘Would you like a glass?’

The writer took one, this man who was nearly more a child than the master of the house. ‘Thanks--’ Flustered. Thanking a servant.

Good heavens.

Sebastian bowed again, and as he walked away he felt the man’s gaze follow him with a sort of longing. Those brown eyes were so open, so earnest that one must almost pity him; a mortal cannot long survive in this world if he shows himself so unprotected. The fellow could write fairytales. A fantasy of wit and clever puzzles; but that is not reality, not the filth and gleam of life. 

‘Champagne, Sebastian,’ came the boy’s low voice at his elbow.

‘Yes, my lord.’

The butler moved on.

He paused to take the empty glass from the actress’s gloved fingers; a well-mannered woman, despite her stage background. There was still a touch of her rural accent beneath the polished enunciation. The Midlands, perhaps? Nobody sounds that plummy without a lowly background or a deeply-hidden history; crux knows the Phantomhive household was walking proof of that. And Sebastian most of all.

The guests were happy. Quite content. As they should be; the young master’s wine cellar was spectacular. 

Lau hung at Lord Siemen’s side; along with his pretty assassin, light-footed on the polished floor, her gown a silk shimmer beneath the chandelier. She was over-playing her assets, though, rubbing her cleavage against the banker’s arm. One could lose one’s hand between those tucked-up tits. And one’s cock between her teeth, no doubt; fierce, very fierce, and she knew Sebastian’s eyes were lingering, too.

Mr Grimsby the director was speaking to the young master, his voice too high above the swell of conversation. Too accustomed to demanding attention. And he seemed to be the needy sort. His hand on the earl’s back. His arm around the slim shoulders, the _dog_ , and who had given him permission?

Sebastian waited for the inevitable sharp command.

But the boy stood still. He took no notice of the touch on his coat. He was playing the host, and he was prepared to endure these things this evening. He’d put on a polite little mask, as false as any of Sebastian’s.

The butler returned to the table to refill his tray with drinks.

Somebody moved beside him.

‘Lau.’ Cautiously now. ‘It’s always a pleasure to see you.’

‘How could we possibly refuse, my dear Earl?’ The man flicked his long fingers, a vague restless gesture. ‘It’s never a bad time to do the Earl a favour. You certainly have your work cut out for you this evening, Butler.’

‘Indeed. A full house. My lord will have a challenge of a different kind tonight.’

‘And he is keeping you very busy, I think. It appears to be his favourite game.’

Sebastian was filling the glasses, and he didn’t turn back to the man. He’d seen creatures like Lau in the deserts, long years ago in Africa and the Levant; he knew the tracks, long dashes like a child leaving lines in the sand. A snake. A sidewinder. It curves left when it wants to move right. It throws itself carefully, a shimmy over sand too hot to touch. Slim, venomous. 

‘My lord plays many games,’ said Sebastian.

‘I wonder. Do you remember? When he ordered you to beat the Bengal prince’s butler and win Her Majesty’s Royal Warrant as supplier to--’

‘I recall.’ And Lau might have been a guest but he was _not_ a British peer, and Sebastian had no need of polite titles with him. A small satisfaction.

‘Do you? So do I. Your master was hoping you would lose.’

‘He was disappointed.’

‘It must be quite a challenge for him. Finding something that you are not capable of overcoming.’

‘A Phantomhive servant serves his lord to the best of his abilities.’ 

‘I suspect that he would enjoy watching you fail.’

And Sebastian couldn’t keep the warning edge from his low voice. ‘I trust that I will never give him that satisfaction.’

Lau pursed his lips thoughtfully. ‘It _would_ be a satisfaction,’ he said. ‘I can understand his determination.’

‘If you’ve quite finished, Mr Lau--’

‘ _Thank_ you,’ said Lau, taking a glass from under Sebastian’s hands with unctuous care, ‘and I do hope you have a _mar_ velous evening, Butler.’

The man was dock-yard drug-carting scum, and the crystal glass glittered in his pale lazy fingers. But there was something about the way his brain crawled, like a slug dragged naked from beneath a rock. Repulsive. Impressive.

‘He’s a doctor,’ said the earl, quiet beside him. ‘Our writer. He’s a medical doctor. Ophthalmology.’ 

Sebastian stopped. ‘Indeed, sir.’ A curious thought; what would the man have seen in his years at medical school? Wounds and disease; deaths and dissections. And he’d settled on fixing people’s eyes, this odd young man who could hardly recognise a den of beasts when he stepped into one.

‘It is in our best interests that the Doctor be sympathetic toward us.’

‘I am aware, sir.’

The boy flashed him a strange small look. ‘He likes you. You must continue to charm him.’

Everyone likes me, young master. Except for the very wise few.

Sebastian bowed fractionally.

‘I think he’ll do. What do you think?’

‘What do I think?’ Sebastian savoured it, the words in his mouth. The thought in his mind. Because he always had so many _many_ things all swirling around in there, but when had his young master ever wanted to know?

The earl had chosen this stranger for a difficult task. And the man would fulfil it perfectly. This shabby little writer would piece together this charade of theirs-- brilliantly, blindly, jumping to all the right conclusions; their conclusions, the clues they planted carefully for him.

The young master had chosen well.

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. ‘I think he’ll do.’

He wasn’t sure how he felt about the peculiar light in his master’s singular blue eye.

He turned back to the other guests. Somebody had spilled a glass on the ebony side-table, and he sighed as he headed for the workstation. Heavy drapes had been pulled closed along the end of the ballroom, across the doorway to the dim drawing room next door where Mey-rin and Tanaka were polishing the silverware and re-filling the ice-buckets. 

Sebastian mopped and tidied. He kept his eye on every movement, every guest. He took his place behind the buffet table and spooned out gravy and carved the dear little roasted pheasants into scraps of quivering meat.

And the Earl himself was sitting over beneath the window, perched on a stiff little Chippendale chair. His slim legs crossed; a flash of bare knee.

Talking to the writer.

‘Doctor,’ the boy was saying. ‘ _Do_ tell me about your work.’

‘No, it's just Arthur, _please_ \--’

Sebastian caught snatches of their conversation. Lenses, scopes, the meaning of the various veins of the eye; the human circulatory system. The boy had no interest in these things. But his guest did, and a man reveals a great deal when he speaks about the things that interest him.

And the butler caught his master's casual comment, too. ‘I read some of your work the other day, Doctor.’

 _Tsk._ Did you now, sir? A pulp crime tale in a household magazine, published several Christmases ago. Just casually happened across the thing. And re-read it until the page-corners curled.

But the boy wouldn’t say this. He wouldn’t explain to this humble Scottish scribbler that the man was here because of the fanciful thing he’d dashed off for a magazine. He would never show what he was thinking. What _was_ he thinking?

Sebastian slid a slice of roast meat onto Lord Grey’s plate, a silver shriek of knife on carving fork.

He wasn't the only one here who wore a mask, and with a little time the entire room was already beginning to show it. Loosened tongues. Relaxed shoulders. Voices higher, louder.

And there it was, the hidden human animal beginning to show its claws.

There was trouble with Lord Siemens; or trouble with Miss Diaz, difficult to tell. The old man was pawing at her, pulling her close against him. She pushed him off. And of course the man was shouting, waving his arms.

And he was insulted, was he? The tiresome old fool was wounded by the idea that a woman could dare reject him. He was determined to be the victim here. 

Sebastian dusted off his gloves with a sigh. He'd have to step in before the man caused any more disruption; two paces across the room and he’d be there.

But the earl was standing up. Handing his glass to Mr Arthur. And oh, oh _sir_ , are you going to intervene? And the boy had moved already, a quick step in front of the woman as Lord Siemens threw his glassful of champagne.

The room buzzed with silence, and the Earl of Phantomhive stood drenched in their midst. His hair dripping in his eyes, his shirtfront splashed. Flushed, tense.

But the boy didn’t even raise his clear little voice. ‘This is a dining hall. And that will be quite enough from you two.’

Miss Diaz folded her arms, and even the old man looked momentarily abashed.

Sebastian smiled. Noble little lord, defending a lady. The chaos was defused. Order restored. 

Apart from Mr Grimsby, his eyes bleared with his sixth glass of claret, pointing his finger at the old banker. ‘You--’

Oh dear. 

‘You perverted old wretch--’

Was their night really going to be disturbed by petty human jealousy, of all things?

‘Don’t touch my woman so easily--’

And that was Sebastian’s queue. He reached for the ice bucket. Grabbed the bottle of sparkling Parcari and tossed it into the air above their heads.

At least they’d all stopped talking again.

Glasses, table, ladder?-- why not?-- ladder, and he might as well do this properly, feeling the slow of time, of gravity, the sudden shift of space around him. The tilt of the room as he curled like a cat, mid-air. Weightless, limitless. He should do this more _often_ because nothing felt _quite_ like this except for-- 

The bottle was firmly in his grip again. The cork was noisy under his thumbs. And he mounted the ladder lightly, filling the champagne tower on the table. A splash of foam.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, please enjoy.’

And the air around his head hummed like the sudden voices. 

Sebastian sniffed thoughtfully as he descended the ladder again. He’d never have gotten away with this if his master’s guests weren’t half-drunk already; there would be questions-- _how did you do it? Where were the glasses hiding? One bottle will only fill six glasses, Sebastian; that was a most unnecessary display_ \-- but the earl made no objection. 

Nor did anyone else; they were applauding already. Cheering. 

And the young master was staring too, his eye startled blue. His wet hair dripping over his cheek.

Sebastian sighed. ‘Towel, Mey-rin.’ He’d be quicker if he fetched it himself, but there was something else his master needed.

The back stairs of a grand house feel so much more silent on a night like this-- when the dining hall is a buzz of voices, and the lights are all a-glare, and the ballroom doors thrown open; up here on the empty floors there was only silence, and the chill of unbreathed air.

The earl’s little white shirts were in their stack, starched stiff as clean paper.

Sebastian passed like a shadow back downstairs again, and paused in the hall to listen; voices, and the clink of glasses, and all the normal chatter of humanity.

And he ducked back into the vast room, weaving through the guests until he stood at his master’s side, back in the margin of the room near the window.

‘Oh my, sir. What have you gotten yourself into?’

The boy was scrubbing his hair with the towel. ‘I was doing my duty.’ He sighed, glancing over to the sofa where Lord Siemens was roaring with laughter, a fresh coupe of champagne in his hand. ‘Because not all my guests can keep their manners.’

Sebastian took the towel from his master gently and began to dry the boy’s rumpled hair. ‘Indeed.’

The earl dropped his voice, quick low French. Soft as a bird. He sighed, watching the banker grab at Mey-rin as she passed by with a dish of gravy. ‘Is this how it is? A few drinks and he turns into this. And a repeat offender by the looks of it.’ But he said it lightly. His cheeks were flushed bright. Not even the guests’ lapse in manners had ruffled him. 

Sebastian regarded him curiously.

The boy looked happy. And it was strange, infectious. 

Not even the Earl of Phantomhive could resist the mood this evening. Lights and music and a plate full of little salmon tartlets, and he was happy. A child at a party. 

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian, replying in French, and he let something relax in his voice. ‘I have to wonder if he’s a fool, or simply shameless.’ 

‘Either way he’s a hopeless case. Any doctor would despair of him.’

There was a snuffle of laughter beside them, and Sebastian turned sharply. 

Mr Arthur was listening. And had understood them, clearly, and was just realising he'd been caught eavesdropping on his host’s confidential conversation. His young face was sharp with sudden horror.

Sebastian’s chest tightened with amusement.

And the boy smiled. Put his finger to his lips, hushing his guest, and the light in his eye could really only be described as a _sparkle_.

Hell and damnation, sir. 

Sebastian tucked his hands behind his back. ‘I ought to get your shirt changed, my lord.’

‘It will dry.’ And the boy didn’t even turn his gaze away from Arthur.

Sebastian bowed. ‘Perhaps, my lord. But we can take no chances with your fragile health, sir.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

‘Your cheeks are coloured. If it is the start of some small fever--’

‘Fine.’ The boy’s heels clicked on the polished floor as he stalked towards the door, and Sebastian took two long strides to catch up with him.

‘Not upstairs, sir; I have brought down a fresh shirt for you. Here; just here.’

And he ushered his master behind the work-station curtains, into the half-light of the open door.

‘I would not dream of taking you away from your guests, sir; your duty is to them, this evening.’

The boy was picking at his damp shirt, his lips curling in disgust. ‘The bloody _smell_ of this stuff.’

Sebastian knelt down and rubbed at it with his linen cloth. ‘To which do you object, my lord, the complex fruit palette or the subtle oak?’

‘Shut up. Don’t talk as though you have any sense of taste.’

‘Not for French wine, sir.’ He slipped off the earl’s woollen jacket.

The boy was shivering already, his narrow shoulders gathered beneath the fine cotton shirt. His whole body was veiled with the sharp yeasty sweetness of the wine. It almost masked his scent, the sweet warm fresh skin, and Sebastian frowned. He leaned in closer, breathing in, and felt his master’s posture stiffen against the wall.

He glanced up.

The boy was glaring at him. ‘Hurry. They’re waiting.’

‘Indeed, sir.’

Sebastian didn’t hurry. He rubbed at the boy’s shirt-front again and the fabric was damp, translucent in a streak down his front, clinging to his pale skin. One nipple showed pink through the shirt.

Sebastian dropped his cloth. He held the boy by the knees. And leaned in, and he pressed his mouth to the wet shirt. 

The earl wriggled.

The demon bit harder, his teeth in the heat of the boy’s flesh under the shirt. The nib was firm under the flat of his tongue as he lapped at it. He pushed the shirt up and the heat of the boy’s chest bloomed against his lips, the smooth wet skin and tiny bud. And he slid one hand between the boy’s legs, kneading his thumb deep as he sucked. 

‘You can’t--’

‘No?’ Sebastian nipped at the reddened skin. ‘What is it you think I’m going to do?’

And he hadn’t intended to touch the boy but his cock stirred in his trousers, an insistent leap. And crux, if he was quick enough about it--

He squeezed.

The boy squeaked. He was still shaking. It wasn’t with the cold, any more.

Sebastian felt up the slim thighs and found the buttons. Quickly, and tugged his master’s shorts down. A peal of laughter cut through the curtain from the dining hall, but it would be fine. No one was approaching. They would be fine if he didn’t waste time--

‘I won’t allow it. You mustn’t--’

‘I don’t intend to, sir.’

But Sebastian was unbuttoning himself, and he felt his master’s gaze move down to the movement of his fingers as he took himself in hand, short rough little tugs, and the boy was _looking_. 

The little whore couldn’t help himself. He wanted to see. He wanted to feel.

Sebastian spat into his palm and squeezed himself a little harder, teased himself, just to watch the blue eye widen at the sight of it, the fierce red tip slipping out of its soft sheath.

He pressed his other palm flat against the boy’s chest, a bump into the wall. ‘You needn’t squirm so terribly, my lord. It isn’t going to hurt you.’

The boy was panting, pressed against the wall, his visible eye wide and dark and cavernous.

‘Hold still. Hold _still_.’ 

Sebastian slipped his hand down the boy’s leg, pressing himself close. Between.

The boy was warm, soft. Plump and silken flesh, and he tucked his cock between the slick little thighs.

‘There,’ he whispered, ‘not so bad, is it?’

‘They’ll _hear_.’ Hushed. Horrified.

‘Then you shall have to be very quiet, sir.’

‘If somebody sees--’

‘I shall be quick.’ He’d have to be. And he would be. The boy felt _good_. ‘As quick as I can be--’

Sebastian closed his eyes, gasping at the squeeze of the slim legs around him, the delicious slip of the boy’s skin. 

‘I could order you to stop.’

An old threat. And a hollow one. Sebastian curled his fingertips into the soft thighs, holding the boy firmly against the wall as he moved. ‘But you won’t. _Mhm_. Will you?’

The boy was clinging to him, his little hands curled on Sebastian’s shoulders. ‘But somebody will _come_ \--’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian. His chest was hot. His knees were tense on the polished floor. ‘And if you keep your mouth shut it might even be you, sir.’

And the boy was quiet for a while, shivering in his arms. Around his cock. Holding still while Sebastian sighed, delighting, enclosed, his master’s nubbly prick snagging on the thrusts. The excited bounce of the small sac, hard with rubbing.

The earl whispered. ‘I have to _go_ \--’

‘I won’t keep you long. You can return to your guests. To your Doctor. Soon--’

The boy’s cheeks blazed. ‘You. _You_ \--’

Sebastian didn’t listen. He gritted his teeth at the impatience of his own cock, shivering against the smooth, the hot, the sweet and he turned his wet mouth to the child’s shoulder and bit him, sucked his skin with slow voluptuous pulses of his teeth. Matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

The earl pushed his face into the crook of Sebastian’s neck, muffling himself. Squeak. Squeak. Hot little breaths on Sebastian’s skin, and the demon’s body tightened as he held his breath. Ached. Finished.

Better. He slowed, one last shiver between the boy’s legs. Softening, a loose light-headed heat. Oh, better.

He leaned back on his knees and pushed the hair from his face. 

The boy was flushed, open-mouthed, with the spatter of his servant’s ejaculate still drizzling down his thighs. 

‘You animal.’

‘I did tell you it wouldn’t take long, sir.’

‘You _used_ me.’ The boy was wiping his mouth on the hem of his shirt, and under it showed his little quivering cock, still upright. Poor lustful baby thing. Was that why he was so furious?

‘Yes.’ Sebastian sighed, licking the corner of his mouth. ‘I did, most foully. You have clearly never been to a boarding school, my lord.’

His master eyed him coldly and ran impatient fingers over himself. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Sebastian gave him a slow smile. ‘Ask your cousin Edward. If you are prepared for the answer.’ The boy was half-collapsed against the wall, rubbing down his sticky legs, and the demon sighed again. ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘That’s quite enough. You need not sulk at me. Here, sir.’

And he knelt at the earl’s feet and bowed his head and suckled the tender little cock into some sort of happiness, with his master’s fingers clawing at his hair.

The taste lingered on his lips while he buttoned up the boy’ clean shirt. As they stepped back into the bright ballroom, the boy flushed and silent. As Sebastian returned to work. To the tables, the kitchens.

And it hardly mattered that the young master went and fetched himself another plate of raspberry sponge-cake and sat back down beneath the rain-streaming window-- beside the guest, the doctor-- and spoke to the man for an hour. Two hours. He was still sitting there when Sebastian had cleared the tables and changed the cloths and was turning on the lamps in the smoking lounge, when the other guests were settled comfortably on the sofas with brandy.

It hardly mattered.

The scent rubbed into the boy’s skin was his servant’s.

The clock was striking eleven when Lord Siemens fell asleep, an unconscious mess, and the earl glanced over the sofa where the man was slumped. His small nose wrinkled in disgust.

‘Sebastian. Take him to his room. I’ll retire too.’ 

The butler took off his apron and stooped to assist.

The boy stood, reaching for his cane, and paused at the sofas on his way towards the door. ‘I’m very sorry,’ he said, a little louder, ‘but I’ll excuse myself as well.’

Lau didn’t raise his eyes from his glass, from Ran-mao’s head on his shoulder. ‘The Earl is going to sleep already?’

Sebastian didn’t see his master’s face, as he dragged the drunken banker upstairs, but he heard the boy’s answer.

‘For a child, it is already bedtime.’

And the click of sharp heels catching up behind him.

Sebastian waited until they were upstairs before he spoke. ‘So you’re a child when it suits you.’

‘Shut up.’ And the murmur that followed. ‘You’re a servant when it suits _me._ ’

The earl wasn’t a child this evening; he was a general retiring to his tent to consider his campaign.

But the boy was tired. His pretty face was pale, his lids heavy. Sullen with exhaustion when Sebastian found him in his bedroom, once the German was snoring safely in his own room. The young master could scarcely manage an hour of talk with strangers and he’d had a whole night of it. Playing host; playing grown-ups. He was silent as Sebastian changed him into his nightgown and tugged back the bedcovers.

‘This isn’t a chess game,’ the boy said abruptly.

‘My lord.’ Waiting.

‘This is a game of poker. And we’re waiting for the first player to show their hand.’ The boy was tucking the blankets close around his body, wriggling his little arse back into his pillows. But his eyes were wide and far away. ‘One of two things will happen tonight. Somebody will either attempt to murder me, or one of the guests. The point of _my_ death is clear. And the death of a guest would be a personal and professional shame. Particularly if it were the guest of honour, Lord Siemens, Her Majesty’s distant cousin; I suspect she would have all the ammunition she needed to replace me as Watchdog. This is, without doubt, why she sent him here in the first place.’

Sebastian was stoking up the fire. ‘What is your plan, sir?’ 

‘My plan? I’m going to bed.’

Sebastian knelt back on his heels. Dusted off his gloves. And he glanced back over his shoulder at the boy sitting in the bed, folded arms over the woollen coverlet. ‘I see.’

‘I’m sure you can take care of things. Grey will be behind anything that happens tonight.’

‘Certainly.’ 

‘We cannot touch him. We must trust that he has a plan to escape the blame, and we will let him; but we need Woodley to take the blame for it.’

Sebastian stood slowly. Tapped his finger against his chin. ‘Her Majesty is a person of great shrewdness and impressive resourcefulness, but surely she would not remove a member of her own family, however distant.’

‘No. His death will likely be a deception. But even the scandal will be enough to ruin me.’

‘Shall I set somebody to guard Lord Siemens, sir?’

The earl paused. Shook his head. ‘They want a death, and they shall have one. Grey will act, and we will allow him to believe that he is in control here. A man following his plan is less dangerous than one who is forced by panic to improvise.’

Indeed. Perhaps the boy had learned something from his servant, after all.

‘And if an attempt is made upon one of the other guests?’

‘It’s possible, but unlikely; my guest list was not known to Her Majesty, and Grey has no reason to endanger anybody else in this house. But we shall have to take that risk in order to see the extent of his plan.’

‘I see.’ Sebastian looked at him keenly. ‘So everybody in this house is in danger of being murdered, and you are willing to go to sleep. To let the game play out and simply to watch the result.’

‘ _Almost_ everybody. I have no desire to let Mr Lau die; he’s a useful contact, and forming a new relationship with his successor would be tiresome. I’d prefer it if he lived. And Dr Arthur, too.’

‘Ah.’ Sebastian paused.

‘That man is our witness, after all. If he were to die, his role as observer would fall to the actress and her lover. Although they are disinterested and well-respected, I cannot trust that they will give an unexaggerated account of things. We need the writer’s impartiality.’

‘Of course, sir.’ 

If the boy noticed the sharpness in his servant’s voice, he gave no sign of it. ‘Woodley is disposable. I spoke to Diedrich this morning, and he confirmed our suspicions; the man’s a weapons dealer. Tell Lau to ensure things go our way. He must stay close to Woodley this evening. And if things boil over he must direct their suspicion and keep Woodley firmly in everyone’s sights. The writer must document everything. He’s a doctor, the others will trust him.’ A pause. ‘And if Grey strikes--’ He paused again.

‘We cannot be more prepared, sir.’ Sebastian hesitated. The boy already knew this. But perhaps he liked hearing it. ‘Nothing will happen to you while I am at your side, my lord.’

‘Precisely. He knows that you’re capable. It’s unlikely that they will attempt to remove me by force when they can drive me out with scandal. But it may still be necessary for one of the household to be sacrificed. There are several outcomes in which your death would be preferable.’

Sebastian folded his hands behind his back. ‘You intend to put that plan into action, after all.’

‘Only if we have absolute need for it. It would be highly inconvenient.’

‘Indeed.’ Sebastian tilted his head. ‘A little pain is quite refreshing, but even I have no particular fondness for being murdered.’

The boy ignored him. ‘If it does take that direction, you shall have to ensure things run smoothly while you’re out of the way. I don’t trust Bard’s cooking. And you must inform Tanaka that he will take on your bodyguard duties if you are incapacitated.’

Sebastian curled up his chilled fingers. He bowed, sweepingly. ‘And how should I amuse myself during the period of my possible death, young master?’

The boy looked at him. ‘It makes no difference to me. Stay away from your room. Keep out of sight until you are called. But it’s likely that we can avoid that outcome.’

‘I am glad to hear it, sir.’

But the boy wasn’t listening as he burrowed deep into his blankets.

‘Good night, my lord.’

‘Mhm.’

It had been a long time since Sebastian had left his master’s room like this, without even an attempt at their usual game. 

But there were other things on the earl’s mind this evening.

Sebastian found Tanaka waiting at the end of the hallway. 

‘No problems?’

‘Not yet,’ said Sebastian, ‘but the evening will not be straightforward. I’m not yet finished in the kitchen.’ 

Tanaka nodded. ‘I shall check the floors upstairs, and keep watch here until the guests have all retired for the night.’

‘For the entire night, if you don’t mind. It is possible that the young master will require a guard.’

Tanaka’s pale glance was uncomfortably shrewd. ‘I see. You will be busy this evening?’

‘Something may come up. For the next few days, possibly. If that is the case, the young master will be safe with you.’

It wasn’t quite a compliment; it was closer to an order.

Tanaka nodded. ‘Of course.’

And Sebastian made his way back downstairs.

The service bell from the smoking lounge rang at midnight; Woodley and Lau were calling for another few bottles of whisky.

He fetched them in silence. Poured neatly. 

Woodley was standing over at the bookcase, trimming himself a new cigar, his back to them both.

And Lau was watching Sebastian from under lazy eyelids. 

‘How is your evening going, Mr Lau?’ The butler set the whisky bottle on the table at Lau’s elbow.

‘Fine,’ said the man. ‘Just fine. Although I’m sure I don’t know _why_ I was honoured with an invitation.’

He was awaiting instructions. And it was time to give him some.

‘You and the young master are old friends, Mr Lau. You are uniquely placed to assist him in ensuring that his guests enjoy their stay here. Providing conversation, ensuring that nobody is left unattended or overlooked in conversation.’ He nodded silently towards Woodley, who was lighting his cigar with the careful focus of the very tipsy.

‘True,’ said Lau sleepily. But his narrowed eyes gleamed. ‘I _do_ have a knack for bringing people together. Born to entertain, you know. Mr Woodley and I have been having some _fasc_ inating conversations.’ 

Sebastian was pouring a bottle of red wine into the waiting crystal decanter. ‘My lord appreciates your effort.’

‘My lord seems to have taken a liking to the young doctor fellow.’

‘Of course,’ said Sebastian. He smiled, just widely enough to show a hint of teeth. ‘The man is a stranger here. He came alone, without contacts. Without affiliations,’ he added carefully. ‘My lord would be ill-mannered if he did not attempt to make him feel welcome.’

‘Of course. _Very_ welcome,’ said Lau comfortably. ‘It was charming to witness. Our dear Earl, making friends. Perhaps this little holiday will prove entertaining after all.’

Sebastian didn’t reply. He wiped the lip of the decanter and set it on the table between the sofas.

‘And how is _your_ evening going, Butler?’

‘Wonderfully,’ said Sebastian. ‘And I have been informed that it will get even better. Although there is quite a dangerous storm over us tonight.’

‘So I noticed.’ Lau re-crossed his legs in a sweep of silk. ‘And is our dear little Earl tucked up sweetly in his bed?’ 

Woodley was returning to the sofas, and Sebastian kept his voice level. ‘My lord is quite content. Everything is going exactly as a host could wish.’

‘How lovely for him,’ said Lau. ‘ _Not_ so exciting for the rest of us.’ Ran-mao settled herself beside him, nudging her head into his shoulder, and he stroked her head absently. ‘Then again, if the dear Earl happened to get himself into trouble, I’m sure his Butler will be about to step in and rescue him. That was very clever work with the wine glasses this evening.’

‘Good work,’ echoed Woodley, sitting down. ‘A damn good show.’

Sebastian raised his eyebrows at Lau. ‘If my lord’s butler were too busy to intervene, things might be more interesting next time.’

Lau didn’t move. ‘That would be something worth seeing.’ And he shrugged. Sighed. ‘But I’m sure he has planned against every possibility. He has all his other servants to assist him, of course.’

‘Indeed. Finny and Mr Tanaka are proving invaluable this evening. If my lord has need of anything throughout the night, he will rely on Finny. Likewise, gentlemen, if you require anything else, feel free to ask Mr Tanaka for assistance.’

‘Ah,’ said Lau. ‘ _Ah_.’ He swirled the brandy glass and sipped. ‘I shall keep it in mind, Butler.’

There was a subtlety to the man’s mind; he could work with half-truths and suggestions, with the merest hints. Sebastian respected it. They spoke the same language.

He bowed as he left the room, and it was done. 

Lau was expecting trouble. He would stick close by Woodley and give himself an alibi, and he would ensure that suspicion for any crime was channelled towards the man. And once trouble stirred, if there was threat of danger or scandal, he’d know to place the Earl safely in Finny’s hands for the night.

It was done. Sebastian could do nothing more.

He sighed as he washed up the champagne glasses. The house was finally falling silent. The clock was striking one. He heard the cogwheels whirr before the gong engaged.

‘And we still haven’t started on the roasting trays,’ said Mey-rin, her voice flat with misery. ‘We need to be up again in four hours.’

‘Go up,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’ll finish here.’

‘Are you sure?’ Bard dried his hands off on his apron. ‘It’s been a long night.’

Yes, dear Bard. And not nearly fucking done yet.

‘Of course,’ said Sebastian. ‘I’m not doing anything else.’

But there was another bell, from one of the guest bedrooms, and Mey-rin groaned. 

‘It’s him, it’s the German lord. I can’t go up there, I can’t, I can’t--’

‘No,’ said Sebastian, ‘there might be danger.’ The maid’s eyes were much too hopeful, and he sighed. ‘Lord Siemens was very drunk, and I must check on the state of his health.’

He went upstairs with her. If there was trouble it would begin like this: a bell in the midnight house. 

The storm was louder now; or perhaps the sound was simply clearer up here in the quiet corridors, away from the steam and hiss of the kitchens. He could hear many things if he really listened, paused with Mey-rin outside the guest’s door.

A gale of wind. A roll of thunder.

A tiny crack of glass. 

And a scream, a broken shriek from behind the bedroom door.

Sebastian sighed. 

‘What’s wrong?’ Mey-rin was yelping. ‘Oh, what’s wrong--’

‘What was that? Somebody’s hurt?’ It was Grey, damn him, stirring trouble if he couldn’t find it, and now the others were gathering, Woodley and Lau. This would be simpler without an audience. 

Sebastian kicked in the door, a splintering of seasoned oak.

The room inside was dim. The German was slumped in his chair.

‘Is he-- is he _dead_?’

Arthur pushed through and he was checking. Nodding. His face pale, shaken, a tremor of shock over his body. 

Mr Phelps crumpled on the carpet in a heap.

And the whole place smelt wrong, sickly flesh and alcohol and no scent of blood at all. Not death, not reality. 

Some kind of poison. And the only place to hide a bottle would be the one place nobody would look tonight: the fireplace. Which roared too hot; somebody had loaded it high with coal.

Well, then.

‘What was that?’ Bard leaned around the door-- and he’d brought Finny up, good man. 

‘Is he dead?’ Finny’s face was drawn in horror.

Probably not. But Sebastian had to wait before he made mention of anything, he’d have to go and check on his master-- and there were footsteps in the hallway already, a patter behind the sound of Tanaka's shoes, and there was that dry little voice.

‘What’s all the racket?’

‘Lord Siemens.’ 

The earl tugged his dressing gown closed over his nightgown and looked around the room. The whole room, and Sebastian caught the sharp glance his master threw at him.

Silence it would be, then.

And they were all assembled: the players were staged. 

Sebastian eyed them thoughtfully. A killer lurked here like a snake in a garden. And as he gazed around the room at their various faces, watching them act and react, they were writhing like little snakes themselves; coiled and recoiling. Defensive. Aggressive.

Oh, they were going to be played.

One after another. Herded into an inevitable outcome that they never saw coming. Guided by the opposing forces: Grey, bluntly pushing his own schemes. Woodley, suspicious and defensive. Lau breathing his advice into their midst, as pervasive and dangerous as his opium smoke. 

And the Queen’s Watchdog himself, the manor’s host in the middle of the room, almost silent as the game begins to play out. Who here would guess that the child was guiding anything at all? He’d practically written the script. Grimsby would have been impressed. Dazzled. And well he ought to be.

 _Act 1: Scene 1._

Sebastian folds his hands. 

_Curtain rise._

His smile is suspended, a thing felt but never shown, and he watches them step into their roles. 

_Enter_ _DEATH_ _._

And the show begins.

Grimsby wants to leave the body where it is until the Yard arrives. But Bard knows the room is too hot, and the body must be shifted to the cellar; a stretcher is brought up. He and Finny take the body down.

The Scotsman has slipped off his jacket and is folding it under Phelps' head. 

Lau observes that the Yard will be delayed by the bad weather, and Woodley is the first to realise that nobody will be leaving. He’s furious. The actress is anxious. Of course, of course; patience, good people. It will get very much worse before the end. 

Grey is the first to point out that the murderer must be amongst them still.

And _then_ things get interesting. The actress has thought of something. 

Sebastian prompts her. ‘Lady Diaz?’

And she’s quite clever, actually, she’s figured out that the door was locked on the inside; the killer must have escaped out the window.

Except he hasn’t, of course. This house is full of murderers, Lady Diaz.

Grey is quick to prove her wrong and oh, that is _fascinating_ , because his simplest option would be to agree that the unknown murderer had escaped. So the plan is not to avoid blame, but to direct it. To whom?

Wait. Watch. 

Grimsby notes that the murderer must have locked the door again and escaped into the hallway.

And that’s the queue. Time for a detour.

‘That is unlikely,’ says Sebastian, and pulls out his service key. 

They are all quite happy to believe his story, and he does it _well_ , this steady-eyed rambling that gets them exactly where he wants them. Where his young master wants them.

A locked room murder, my lord? As you wish.

‘Preposterous,’ Woodley sputters. ‘This isn’t a novel.’

‘Indeed.’ The young master speaks, and suddenly everyone is listening. ‘If anyone published a locked-room plot as crude as this, they’d get complaints.’ He feigns a yawn, insouciant small brat. And his sideways glance is much too sly. ‘Don’t you agree, Doctor?’

Oh?

Sebastian straightens. 

Apparently the man does agree. And the boy is explaining, what--what? A locked door can be undone with a needle and thread. And any one of them could be the murderer. And this was not part of the plan.

 _Enter_ _CHAOS_ _._

The actress is shrieking. So is Grimsby. And Sebastian is poised to raise one gloved hand for silence but Lau gets in first; he's been listening. He hasn’t missed a thing.

‘Lord Siemens was killed after he retired to bed,’ Lau says. ‘To be _precise_ , it was between the time he rang the servant’s bell, and the time that the Butler and co. arrived at his room. So if you have an alibi to cover that time, you’re safe.’

And they all begin to speak, anxious, creating a little checklist in their heads, and Sebastian listens carefully. But they all tell the truth.

Grimsby and Miss Diaz were in the billiards room with Grey. And so was Arthur and the hapless Mr Phelps, who still lies limp on the floor.

‘And where were you?’ the earl is asking Lau. Rather coolly. 

But of course Lau is prepared. He had been with Ran-mao and Woodley in the lounge, and if anyone was going to discredit Woodley it was Lau, now, right now while they were on the subject.

But Lau makes no mention of it. ‘If I remember correctly,’ he says, ‘the alcohol ran out just after midnight, and we had the butler fetch us some more.’

‘Yes,’ says Sebastian, ‘I brought it to you at around ten minutes past twelve.’

‘We were all in the kitchen,’ says Mey-rin hastily. 

Still Lau says nothing. It would not be difficult. _Mr Woodley DID go for a walk, didn’t he, Ran-mao?_ But the man is silent. 

And anybody can do the simple mathematics.

Grey’s tone of false thoughtfulness burns through Sebastian’s hands. ‘Which _means_ …’

And now Lau speaks. ‘Excuse me for asking, Earl. But what were _you_ doing at that time?’

Sebastian watches his master. Waiting. And the sullen gather of that small pointed face is suddenly worth more than any plan. 

The boy lowers his eyes with a frown. ‘Certainly I’m the only one here without an alibi. But I don’t have any reason to kill the Lord.’ 

And Lau’s light voice is a purr in the warm air. ‘Is that so?’ 

He has been observing. His argument is impressive. The young earl has significant business interests across Europe. Perhaps if they were threatened by the expansion of a certain German company--

Grey’s eyes are sharp. The earl waits, impassive, and only one who knows him might guess at the sudden frantic buzz of thought behind those steady eyes.

Sebastian knows him. And he feels the words like a moth in his throat, swallowed, a flutter. He could clear his master’s name in one breath. But something curls curiously through his body, slow and cold, and he waits. One moment. Just one moment more.

Anyone can follow a plan, after all. But improvisation, adaption-- _ah._ That’s where genius lies. The child has said so himself.

And this would be the proving of it. 

‘Wait a minute!’ And it’s Finny. ‘I don’t understand all this-- but he wouldn’t, the young master _wouldn’t_ \--’

‘Finny. Enough.’ The earl raises one hand, and the room falls quiet again.

‘I’d like some insurance,’ says Grey in a cool polite voice. ‘Insurance that we’ll get out of here alive. This house is in the hands of a killer, after all.’ He flicks a sharp glance at the silent boy. ‘What if we are all silenced before the storm breaks?’

The sudden uproar is like another tumble of thunder.

‘Very well,’ Lau is saying. ‘We shall confine him.’

And this is suddenly and uncontrollably wrong. Leaving the young master hanging in a moment of anxiety was one thing, but somebody would have to guard the Earl of Phantomhive tonight, and if Grey volunteered himself for the duty they’d be in serious trouble. 

‘Fine,’ says the earl tiredly. ‘If it makes you feel better, go ahead.’

Sebastian curls his hands up tightly. The only solution will be to ensure that the earl is guarded by his own servants.

‘It cannot be in his own room,’ says Grey, speaking as though the earl isn’t even present-- and _that_ will irritate the young master beyond words. ‘A noble’s house will have secret rooms, escape routes. Mine certainly does.’

Time to step in. 

‘Very well, then,’ says Sebastian. ‘We shall all keep an eye on him while attending to his--’

‘That won’t do,’ Lau says sweetly. ‘Your duty as servants is to your lord, so there’s a strong chance you will assist in his escape.’

‘In other words,’ Grey says, ‘one of the guests must watch him.’

Exactly as Sebastian feared.

Grimsby doesn’t want Miss Diaz to be chosen for such a duty. And Woodley doesn’t want the job either-- nor Lau, a small relief. 

‘Well, I don’t want to do it,’ Grey is saying. 

Sebastian bites his lip.

And Lau is smiling as though he’d just been struck with inspiration. ‘I do believe it’s up to you, Doctor.’

Arthur’s eyes widen. ‘What?’

The young master’s face is steady. 

Sebastian freezes. He’s waiting for a signal. A sign. 

But the boy doesn’t even glance at him when he speaks. ‘It looks like this is where we split up. Sebastian, escort everyone to their rooms.’

He bows. Turns back to the huddled guests and gestures to the door. ‘This way, please…’

_Exeunt, stage right._

There will be no protest this evening.

Has the boy realised too?

The butler considers on the stairs. As he switches on lights, ushers Miss Diaz into her bedroom, checks the window locks in Mr Woodley’s chamber. Fetches another blanket for Mr Grimsby, and sends Mey-rin for more candles--

This was the plan, then. To frame the Queen’s Watchdog for the murder of his own guest. Lau has noticed it too, encouraged it, and is it a matter of spite? The man isn’t in Grey’s pay, surely. No, this is just a game to him, too, watching the earl struggle like a trapped fly, separated from his butler.

Hoping to see them fail.

Sebastian growls. He will have to escort the writer to the earl’s chambers, to the young master’s bed. 

And he frowns sourly in the corridor. 

Finny’s boots thump behind him. ‘Mr Sebastian--’

‘ _What_?’ 

And Finny’s face crumples. But he forges on hurriedly and Sebastian is almost sorry; there’s no time to lose his temper and too much riding on his own quick thinking tonight. 

Finny has just come from talking to Mey-rin; Phelps has finally regained consciousness, limp and useless, blabbering about his bedroom-- he doesn’t want to sleep next to a room where a man had been murdered.

Sebastian mutters. ‘Fool. As if the snivelling wretch is in any danger himself.’ 

The only dangerous bedroom this evening will be the young master’s chamber, if Grey has further plans.

Ah. 

And Sebastian turns back to Finny. ‘Move Mr Phelps to the young master’s bedroom,’ he says. ‘He should have no complaints with that.’

‘And where will the young master sleep?’

‘In the guest room,’ says Sebastian. ‘With Mr Arthur. No need to mention this to anybody else, Finny.’ He raises his brows at the boy’s puzzled face. ‘The earl will be safer if his plans are kept secret.’

Finny nods. Vanishes. 

The stage is briefly empty.

Two things might happen before dawn: an attempt might be made on the Earl of Phantomhive’s life, and the plot to confirm him as a murderer might tighten.

Tanaka would be a sufficient bodyguard, if the former.

And if the latter-- well. The earl’s only chance to prove his innocence is if another guest dies in the night. 

Not necessarily a guest. Any corpse will do.

Sebastian pauses in the corridor, and he cracks his knuckles slowly. 

It’s going to be a very long night.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, as always, to the magnificent [sinnergy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnergy/pseuds/sinnergy) for the beta, and to everyone who reads and comments-- I appreciate the heck out of you. Seriously.
> 
> The art is by the wondrous [Lush](https://lushslug.tumblr.com/), commissioned by [Chromehoplite](https://chromehoplite.tumblr.com/)\-- thank you!
> 
> The next update will be on November 13-- in the meantime, feel free to leave an ask on Tumblr @amanitus!


	17. extra {outside}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some mild Arthur/Ciel interaction *ahem*  
> I can't believe I didn't even need an excuse to throw the bed-sharing trope into this one-- thank you, Yana.  
> Enjoy, kiddos ^^

‘An irritating turn of events,’ said the young master.

‘Indeed, sir.’ 

Sebastian slipped the linen nightgown over the boy’s slim arms and began to button it over the pale naked chest. And he glanced across the bed at Mr Arthur.

But Arthur wasn’t watching. Wasn’t paying attention at all, sitting on the edge of the bed with his back turned and radiating misery. Hunched uncomfortably. He hadn’t been expecting this.

Which was possibly the only scrap of consolation in this sudden mess.

Sebastian’s gloved fingers working slowly over the boy’s buttons. He needed to speak to his master. _Your guest isn’t dead, but drugged. His room smelled of poison. The bottle can only have been hidden in the fireplace. The conspiracy deepens._ To let him know that this really was their best option now, another death. Sebastian’s.

And ask, somehow. _What do you plan to do about it?_

If Sebastian was removed from the equation he was free. Beyond. Outside everyone’s calculations, their expectations, the freest agent his master could ever hope to employ. And the Phantomhive butler’s death would clear both him and his master of any guilt in the plot against them.

It was clever. And unavoidable. 

But he needed to secure his orders. The boy would never trust him, and had no doubt written up a careful little note already; some tidy little plan in seventeen steps. 

A pity the young master couldn’t hear his servant’s words in his mind as clearly as Sebastian could hear the boy’s. All Sebastian could do was speak carefully around the edge of meaning, and explain to his master why the earl was here in his guest’s room this evening: Phelps, of course. A reshuffle of rooms. 

He shouldn’t have bothered, though, the Doctor still wasn’t listening; Arthur was trying to ignore the two of them as he murmured under his breath. Checking his clothes beside the bed. Looking for his watch. ‘Jacket. Shirt? No. Pocket?’ Absent-minded. Anxious.

What was the man’s mood for, fear at sleeping beside a murderer? Humiliation at the heavy iron cuff already clamped around his wrist?

Or anxiety at sharing a bed with his host, this pretty child with the unsettling bitter mouth?

But the earl never seemed bitter in Arthur’s presence.

Sebastian smoothed down his master’s nightgown. ‘I wanted to assign Mr Phelps a room immediately, but only the young master’s room was available, so I took him there.’ He glanced up. ‘Please forgive me.’

The boy looked away. Yawned. ‘It can’t be helped.’ And he plumped himself down on the edge of the bed, kicking the slippers from his slim feet. ‘It will be cold this evening. Don’t let the fires go out.’

Sebastian got to his feet and looked down at his master. The creased sleepy blue eye, the small mouth pursed into a tight pink bud.

Had the boy understood already? The poison, the bottle. And he was ordering his servant to find it. And when Sebastian _did_ , as soon as they exposed the plot, Earl Grey would be forced to strike-- and he'd remove the evidence. Along with anyone who drew attention to it.

Sebastian felt the slow chill settle in his bones. His master already knew exactly what his order meant.

And the boy looked back up at him, his small mouth curving into a smile. Soft, breathtaking. ‘Even though I won’t be there, you must be sure to give our guests perfect service.’

Sebastian’s body tightened with a sudden confusion. He bent down, straightening the small slippers on the carpet beside the bed. Reaching for the iron chain, the waiting handcuff.

Where was the plan? What did his master want him to do, besides allow himself to be murdered? Where were the poxy _details_? There was nothing. Only a careless dismissal towards certain death and an empty tomorrow. The boy was too clever to leave his command so open-ended, surely, he had to know his servant would test this. Push this. 

Well, then. Sebastian would have to ensure that the boy regretted his carelessness.

He smiled back at his master, and his words hung curiously in the air. ‘Yes, my lord.’ Between the flash and the rolling thunder.

He wanted to say more, as he knelt to secure the cuff. _You know this is foolish of you, sir. Leaving me to my own devices._ But the boy should know better. He didn’t deserve a warning.

Arthur was climbing under the covers, his eyes carefully averted, half a moment away from death by pure awkwardness. ‘Blanket,’ he was whispering just under his breath. ‘Hmm. All set. Completely fine.’ Was he trying to convince himself?

Sebastian turned back to his master.

‘Excuse me, sir,’ he said, a slow tone that could be mistaken for apology, and the earl held out his hand. Palm upwards, as though he expected a gift.

Sebastian turned the key in the lock. 

The boy raised his wrist and there was a heavy drag of chain beneath the bed. All the way down the length of it and up to the other cuff on Mr Arthur’s wrist.

‘Nuisance,’ said the boy, regarding his wrist with succinct disapproval.

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian. ‘I suppose you shall have to lay very still tonight, sir.’

The boy’s glare was bright, disgusted, as he turned to the man on the other side of the bed. ‘Well, Doctor. Let’s go to sleep.’ And a glance back up at his servant as he shouldered into his soft pillows. 

‘Well, then. Good night,’ said Sebastian. He leaned over the candelabra, and blew out the flames. 

He closed the bedroom door behind him.

Duty. 

_Duty_ , by all the hounds of Hell--

Two weeks of wondering if the brat truly planned to use his servant’s corpse as a plot device, and here he was. And the certainty of painful agony wasn’t even the thing that stung him. 

There were worse people the young master could be shackled to this evening. But the earl hadn’t even protested, this child who didn’t like to be touched-- he hadn’t even demanded that they set up a second bed. 

The young master had captured Arthur’s attention. That was predictable. Preferable, even, but the little monster almost seemed to be enjoying it. He was over-acting. Quite unnecessary to their plan. 

Amusing, quite amusing. The demon smiled tightly. It was almost touching, really, to watch the child at play; but the boy would tire of Arthur’s company. 

Sebastian moved silently down the corridor but there was a shadow somewhere behind him, a movement in the stairwell. Lord Grey was following him. 

The butler opened the door of the dead man’s room.

There’s never an easy way to prepare for a difficult job. But time was ticking.

He knelt at the hearth, and the low flames seemed to exhale when he pushed the poker into their midst.

The poison bottle was in here. As expected. When was the last time he’d been wrong about something?

Sebastian didn’t like the answer to that question, as he stirred the shattered glass fragments in his palm. He wasn’t often wrong. But his master had a way of surprising him that bit too deeply. 

The Doctor was clever. And the earl had more patience with clever people. But Arthur was almost too shy to speak, a shambling mess of a man, weak and dreamy-- clever, but not imaginative enough: the sort of useless mortal one can never form a contract with, because he couldn’t think of anything he needed enough to give his soul for.

The earl must find the man quite pitiful, really.

The bedroom door was nearly silent when it opened. His murderer’s boots made little more than a squeak.

Sebastian could nearly admire Grey’s stealth.

The kill was nearly flawless, one heft of the sword-hilt against his skull. The steel blade flashed.

And Sebastian nearly cried out.

But he was a perfect servant. 

***********

Humans are afraid of death. Which is a joke; they’re afraid of the unknown, like a child trembling over the darkness under their bed. They’re afraid of endings, of change. Which is foolish; without novelty there is no creation. Things change. Things die. Almost everything.

They’re afraid of pain, too. 

And _that,_ on consideration, is a very wise thing to be afraid of. Sebastian couldn’t fault that. 

The door closed.

And the demon permitted himself a sound, a long hiss between his teeth. His lung sucked air unpleasantly, a ragged froth of air in his windpipe.

Pain is a horrendous flickering mess between misfiring brain and tormented flesh. The sticky prickle of carpet under your cheek. The puddle of blood still hot under your body. 

He moved carefully, pushing himself up onto his knees. Dragging the iron poker from its stiff lodging beside his shattered spine, his fingertips searching the edges of the wound. He held his breath. 

Oh, right _through_ , the fucker.

Control, now. 

Ignore the utter wrongness of the panicking mind, the agonised body. 

A gush of hot blood down poured his belly. Pointless. Sebastian winced.

And he got slowly to his feet, holding the mantelpiece, and composed himself. Shaking out his neck, and straightening his spine. His shirt. There was much to be done. 

They had a murderer in the house.

Sebastian put his hand to the ragged hole across his chest. He couldn’t heal this yet; he’d need to replace the poker when he returned. He stared down at the stain over his gloves; bright red, a disgustingly human bloom of blood.

His fingers were slow as he changed his gloves. But there was no time to go upstairs and change anything else. 

He must wake Bard and organise the servants for the time he’d be away. Warn Tanaka. He needed to follow Earl Grey to the cellar and see if he planned to smuggle Lord Siemen’s drugged body from the house. And he’d have to leave a note for the young master-- no, he’d take it up himself. 

And then it would be time to disappear. 

Sebastian frowned on his way down to the cellars. 

The young master had left him no orders. Nothing. Not a word; was he supposed to twiddle his thumbs pretending to be a corpse for the whole day? But he could rest, at least. Plan his funeral. Almost a holiday.

How dull.

It would be amusing, though, the aftermath of his demise, the flowers and the weeping. Because his corpse would be found before dawn, and there was no escaping it; the doddering old Reverend would even have to give a speech. 

Entertaining. But he was going to miss everything worth seeing-- the faces on those bumbling London coppers, baffled in the face of sordid death. They’d never guess the butler’s corpse could solve their little mystery in half a minute.

‘Oh,’ said Sebastian. ‘Oh.’ He stopped on the staircase. 

It was the most ridiculous idea he’d had in several months.

The young master was going to be furious.

Sebastian was smiling by the time he reached the heavy stone corridors below the house.

It was still raining. And it would rain all night, and well into the next. The road would wash out if the river rose much higher.

Which it would.

_How powerful are you, exactly?_

There is little a demon cannot do, my lord, if he is well-paid and highly focused. Or very bored. 

How does one write a mystery story? Begin with the solution and work backwards. He and his master had decided upon a villain already; Woodley would bear the blame for these deaths. The only thing left to do was sprinkle in a few misleading clues.

The young master wanted a worthy mystery. It was Sebastian’s job to give him one.

He considered, as he began his duties that evening; the strangest night of his existence in his master’s service. Roaming the mansion. Breathless, busy. From the lowest cellars to his own distant garret bedroom. From the stables to the green hush of the conservatory. 

And through the heavy rain, a shadow over the muddy roads and all the way to London, for the very best reason of them all-- to prove a point. To secure a final detail. Luminous darkness, and the demon laughed through his teeth as his shadow lengthened over the hills in the bitter rain-- when had he last stretched himself properly? True exertion. The limits of speed and strength. Even with the faint ache of injury in his body he was still the most terrible thing he’d find out here tonight, oh lovely thought. A ripple through his skin. He’d been bound to politeness too long and it was only a pity that there was nobody out in this thunderous midnight to see him-- a monstrous thing moving beneath the moon.

It was good to breathe.

The demon sighed regretfully as he paused on his master’s steps again, and folded himself quietly into that mortal shape. Tidy coat, polished shoes. And into the silent hallways again. There and not-there. Noting, observing. Preparing. Composing mentally, a note for the boy upstairs. 

_Grey has killed Lord Siemens. The real thing, this time. The proof of Siemen’s false death was a poison bottle in the fireplace, but Grey has removed it. I shall attempt to restore it, if you agree._

It lingered in Sebastian’s mind as he sat down at Tanaka’s desk to write the note, as the clock struck half-past three.

_The household has been organised for my absence, sir._

Of course they could not rely on the idiot servants to do a perfect job. Of course the fools would prove a disappointment. But the quickest way to inspire achievement is to convey an impression of trust; he’d called Bard _chef_ , just to be sure. And heard Bard’s muffled exclamation from inside the bedroom as he closed the door.

This is the thing about trust: sometimes it must be earned before it can be given. And sometimes it must be given before it will bear fruit. 

What fruit would show itself on the bare branches while he was gone?

 _I have left instructions with the servants_. And assured that my time of death would be reported incorrectly.

 _I have a clearer picture of this conspiracy._ Although you, sir, do not. Shall I tell you who I found lurking in the conservatory this evening? The circus boy with the white hair, the snake boy. Your enemy. I should like to see your face when your sin catches up with you. But no; I shall keep some pleasures in reserve. There will be time for that.

 _I shall investigate if possible. But I cannot provide much assistance._ You are entirely alone this time, sir. And if I leave a few clues of my own, will that amuse you? An owl. A mysterious stranger. A fine deception for your writer man.

 _I shall manage what I can; intervention if deemed necessary._ And that decision will be mine, sir. 

_But I am, and must remain until the guests depart, to all intents and purposes deceased._

Not a lie. 

Sebastian smiled as he sealed the note.

_You will not see your butler until this case is completed._

And then it was time to leave the note with the young master himself.

He tucked it inside a pillow when he was finished, and carried it up to the guest room. And paused with his hand on the door.

The young master was not asleep in there; Sebastian could hear the heart-beat, too erratic-- the boy was lying in the silent room, turning things over in his mind. Prepared for death, for betrayal; awaiting news.

The butler entered.

And as it turned out, the Doctor was not asleep either. 

The man’s whisper was quiet against the roll of thunder. ‘He looks his age when he’s sleeping.’

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian behind him. ‘Very much nicer when he’s asleep.’ 

The young master thumped under his covers. ‘You’re late, Sebastian.’ And the boy sat up, holding out his hands in the dark. ‘Give me that.’

Arthur’s face was crumbling in horror. But he was puzzled too. 

Sebastian smiled guardedly at the man as he took the earl’s pillow and replaced it with the one he’d brought up. ‘This is what you might call the young master’s security blanket.’

‘Nonsense,’ muttered the earl as he collapsed back into his covers. 

_Sulking, are we?_

It was too good a chance to miss. Sebastian drummed his fingertips on the pillow he held against his chest; still warm from his master’s cheek. ‘Would you also like a lullaby, sir?’

‘No.’ The boy’s fury was quick and sharp. ‘As if you’ve ever sung to me before, I don’t--’ He was stumbling in anger. ‘Just get out. Get _out_. Go back to your room.’ And he flung himself back into his pillow, turning his back to Sebastian. ‘I need to sleep.’

‘Please excuse me.’ Sebastian smiled. He could spare it. ‘I shall return to my work.’

He leaned down, though, and pulled the covers close up around the boy’s huddled shoulders. There was no movement under his hands. A careful pretence at sleep.

Arthur was watching them with embarrassment. And more; confusion. Uneasiness. Desire; and Sebastian sighed. 

But the young doctor’s eyes had a strange clarity. Even if he understood himself, his unspoken urges, would he ever act on them? Perhaps not. And what manner of strange creature did that make him?

‘Dr Arthur. I’m sorry to have caused you trouble this evening.’ Sebastian glanced back at the boy’s pale cheek showing over the top of the covers. ‘The young master guides the Phantomhive household with great resolve, but he is only thirteen. Still a child.’

Outraged silence from the pillow below.

And a thoughtful sound from Arthur. ‘That’s right,’ he said. ‘It must be a difficult time for him. He must be uneasy, being caught up in something like this.’ The man’s eyes were soft when he turned them back on the silent child beside him. As if the boy was innocent. What would Arthur say if he knew? If he’d seen the little monster stand in the stain of his brother’s blood and sell himself to hellspawn?

Fascinating.

‘You don’t believe the young master did it, Doctor?’

The man’s young face gathered. ‘I don’t think the Earl would do something like that.’

Without proof. Without fact. Only his opinion, this strange human, only a feeling, and he was sure. Lost in the atmosphere. Misled, dazzled with wonder and pity. 

This creature was a poet, not a scientist.

Sebastian felt something move oddly inside him. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I am so very glad they chose you to watch over him.’ He pressed the pillow close against him, watching the flicker of puzzlement over Arthur’s face. And sighed. ‘Mr. Arthur--’ Trust must be given before it can be fulfilled. ‘I am leaving the young master in your hands.’

He closed the door behind him, and listened to the silence of his wake.

And he walked away. Back down the empty hallway to the waiting crime scene, to the roaring hearth of the dead man’s bedroom and the seeping stain over the rug.

The young master would be quite safe. Had never been safer, probably, since he’d returned to this monstrous house. Dr Arthur believed that the earl was innocent and he’d protect the child with his life if necessary; the man truly was unattached. He owed the earl nothing. And was owed nothing. He was doing this on principle.

The young master had few enough people around him who could be described in such a way.

Sebastian clenched his teeth as he balanced the bloodied poker in his hand. And winced as he touched the head of the poker to the ragged wound. 

The fire blazed too bright, and the shadows in the corners of the room were dense, liquid. Trembling. Nothing that a mortal should ever witness.

He must play his master’s game tonight.

And for tonight, this night and the next, until the game was played out, he would be everything the earl needed. Invisible; just within reach. Foreseen. Uncalled-for. 

A ghost in his master’s house.

Sebastian slid the head of the heavy iron poker deep between his ribs. It lodged firm beneath his broken lung.

He hardly felt it.

************

The storm had broken. Ciel curled his fingers under his pillow, and stiff paper crinkled against them. 

He would wait until the Doctor was sleeping and then read Sebastian’s note by this dim light, this glow from the distant bathroom where the light still burned, a polite concession to each room’s possibly tipsy guest. 

Or he could crawl across the bed and switch back on the lamp beside Arthur.

Or he could lie, awaiting, and read the thing in pieces by the brief illumination of the lightning. One word. Another. Storm-lit. Fitting for a note inscribed by a demon.

Fanciful nonsense, and Ciel rolled over slowly, stretching out his back. This feather-stuffed mattress was softer than his own. It sank, shifting under his hips. Comfortable. But not familiar, not his own, and this was not going to be a good night’s sleep.

He’d been accused of murder. Just as they’d anticipated. The Queen’s plot was becoming clear. And he couldn’t even think about it properly because he had to share a bloody bed, of all things.

And damn Sebastian, what on earth had he been trying to imply before he left them here alone? _Leaving his master in the Doctor’s hands_ indeed. Hardly; Mr Arthur was only their pawn, unable to either protect or harm. 

The man was still awake. Any sound of sleep-steady breath would be drowned by the gushing rain outside but it was more than sound, it was a sense, an indefinable human presence. Lying stiffly as Ciel was, hands folded over his chest, frowning up at the dim ceiling.

If Ciel thought about it too hard, he could almost feel the man’s warmth from here, across the space between them.

Perhaps Arthur was just as tense as he was, having to be here next to him. The man had seemed to enjoy their conversations tonight at dinner, forgetting some of his awkwardness as he talked, warming slowly. Then explaining excitedly. Microbes, blood vessels. The folklore of the Sussex Downs.

But he’d tried hard not to look Ciel in the eye as he’d climbed under the covers, fussing unhappily with his pillow.

Of course he’d mentioned Ciel’s eyepatch when they were settling down in the bed-- any ophthalmologist would, if only to prove their cleverness, but the man had actually seemed concerned. 

Those brown eyes flicking helplessly from the eye-patch to the heavy chain, eager, but wary, too; he was not comfortable in this house. Arthur’s fear was simple, straightforward. He didn’t know what was going on here. And he didn’t know how to pretend that he did.

Ciel closed his eyes. The wind was hammering over the ridge, he could hear it. The distant roar. The greatest storm of the season was sweeping over the county.

Was that why he’d told Arthur about his family?

He hadn’t planned to.

But Arthur had listened to his little theatrics; nodded. He would listen to more. Take it all. He was a writer, and he lived for this; the flux of sensation, emotion. Sentiment. 

_I haven’t shared a bed for years,_ Ciel had said. Which was true, years since he’d slept beside another person. Properly, beneath the covers. He wasn’t lying to the man about that. _Not since I was very small. I used to climb in with my mother and father, sometimes. On nights like this._

That had been unnecessary.

_And now there’s no one._

That had been foolish.

And Arthur had patted Ciel’s hair as if he was some sort of child.

Ciel felt his mind stiffen irritably against even the memory-- he was not a child, he had no desire for that gentleness in a stranger’s face-- but this is what they’d wanted, wasn’t it? For this witness to observe the wounded orphan. The lonely child, the innocent. 

And Arthur had clenched his hand in his lap as though Ciel’s hair had burned him. With that odd look on his face-- surprise, and horror. Embarrassment at having overstepped himself. And pity, pity wide in his eyes and soft on his mouth.

Ciel sighed.

The man’s silence had been hesitant. On the very edge of saying it, and only propriety restrained his eagerness. _Oh, sir. If you like, sir, if the storm is bothering you--_

If his young host hadn’t been a nobleman, Arthur might have asked. Offered. To lie closer, warmer, an arm settled in comfort across a child’s shoulders. 

If he hadn’t been a nobleman. Curious to wonder, then, _if._

Ciel lay listening, his toes pushed down into the cold corner of the linen sheets. A brief illumination, ghostly silent from the lightning, and the answering thunder afterwards. The window-panes shook. 

And Ciel curled his shoulder deeper into his pillow. _Always on nights like these._

Beside him Arthur moved slightly, and the shift of the man’s body on the feather mattress sank and swelled around them. 

‘This rain,’ Arthur whispered. Did he know Ciel was still awake too? ‘It’s tremendous.’

‘Hellish,’ said Ciel in the dark. 

‘Perhaps,’ said Arthur. ‘Perhaps. In Scotland the old people would say that the witches are out riding their night-mares on the hills.’

Ciel flexed his wrist in the cold iron cuff. ‘Do you believe in the supernatural, doctor?’

‘No,’ the man said slowly. ‘The world contains many things. And even if something is hard to explain, it must be part of nature. So I don’t think anything could be _beyond the natural_ , as such; even goblins or fairies.’

Ciel turned his head on the pillow. ‘You’re just arguing semantics, now. Do you believe in goblins and fairies?’

Arthur was silent for a while. ‘I don’t believe in the sun,’ he said at last. ‘I see it, and it’s there, and it exists. My belief is not important.’

‘You think fairies might exist, though?’

‘If I had proof I’d be able to tell you.’

Ciel snorted. But he was smiling. ‘Anyone can say that. About anything. Do you have belief without proof, then?’

‘That’s called faith,’ said Arthur. ‘And I don’t have faith in anything much.’ But he said it very quickly, and Ciel wasn’t so sure.

He lay still. But Arthur didn’t speak again.

It was not completely unpleasant, lying here with him. Any of the others would have been a torment, the nearness of sordid bodies, their grating presence and his own flesh tense with resistance; no hope of sleep. This, though; it was not unpleasant.

Ciel curled up on his side, and his pulled-up knee brushed the man’s sleepy hand beneath the blankets. 

He thought he felt Arthur jump. 

The hand didn’t pull away, though, and the fingers slowly curled against Ciel’s nightgown. Very gently. 

_Chaste_ Mr Arthur, and Ciel smiled against his pillow.

He stretched out, quite naturally, an arch of his back. As he would if he were tucked comfortably in his own big bed, of course, and his hip bumped against the quiet fingers. And they tensed. 

_If._

If the man were to touch him, it would not be unpleasant.

If the man were to touch him. 

Ciel felt the flush, the tremor of his own arousal, and he lay still. 

That was new. 

More than mere flattery at Arthur’s obvious interest, more than amusement at those eager eyes on him, and Ciel let it lap over him.

He eased his left arm over, and the drag of the chain with it, heavy across his waist. And he felt over the covers and under them and found the man’s warm hand and pulled it close to him. Close as a cuddled toy against his chest, and Mr Arthur was restive, now. But he held himself admirably still. 

Somewhere outside the house a shutter clattered violently.

The man’s warm hand was tucked between Ciel’s. The woollen pyjama-sleeve smelled of cheap soap and mothballs. 

Ciel touched the long fingers lightly. They did not resist. 

His touch slid lower. Broad jut of wrist; a man’s hand. And now he touched more firmly, feeling. Smooth slim fingers, rougher along the side of the knuckles. A writer’s hand. Warm. Nails kept neatly clipped; ah. A doctor’s hand. 

The fingers curled a fraction against his own. Damp in the smooth palm. It trembled.

Ciel pulled it closer, close enough to brush his chin, the lightest tip-touch.

He could press this hand to his bare skin. Push it under his nightgown. Run it down his body, down throat and breast and hip, slow over his thighs and down between. 

At what point would Arthur flinch? At the first touch of hidden flesh, or at the hot stiffening against him? At the slow friction? Or only when the dribble filled his palm?

Ciel breathed in carefully, and bent nearer to the man’s fingertips. He touched them lightly to his lips. 

His cock shivered. He could do anything. 

And Arthur would shiver, maybe, and his eyes in the stormy darkness would be wide and troubled and fascinated. He would not resist. His body would be gentle. There would be no mockery in the movement of his hands, his breath.

Ciel pressed one leg forward beneath the covers, an experimental shift. His bare shin met Arthur’s tight-pressed knees. Warm, woollen. And he pressed again, and felt them part, and it was hot between the man’s thighs. 

Arthur gasped. Ciel heard it. The curled hand at his chin was shaking.

He licked at the man’s fingertip, a touch, and then took it between his lips. Salt. Tender. Arthur made a croaking sound and moved his body closer, cringing or craving, and Ciel felt the man’s feverish stiffness press into his trapped thigh.

He lay still, the fingertip pinned between his teeth. So did Arthur, who was trying not to move now. A gust, a wail of wind; a break of thunder like a rolling tide. The man’s cock was firm against his leg, hot through the wool pyjamas. So hesitant, though, and Ciel felt a curious heat in his chest. What was it that restrained the man? Arthur was clearly stirred. He couldn’t hide it. A man more honest than proper, patting an earl on the head; forgetting himself. But fearful of displeasing his host.

And was that it? Arthur would not assert himself. Was it fear?

Not morality, not when he gasped at that touch of tongue. 

Ciel began to suck the man’s finger slowly, the nail smooth against the roof of his mouth, and Arthur shuddered. Trying to stay silent, it seemed, and his knees clenched around Ciel’s leg. 

Harder, deeper between his lips. 

Arthur tensed and moved his body, a small breathless shift against Ciel, a rub against his thigh, and Ciel arched. The man’s knee was between his own. He bit down on Arthur’s finger and the grind, the grind of the man’s body against him was agonised, a hard shudder of heat, and now the man couldn’t pretend to be innocent.

Ciel grunted, couldn’t stifle it against Arthur’s finger, and Arthur stopped. His hand was shaking badly. 

Then Ciel felt the man’s breath on his own clasped hands. Closer, pressed, a kiss across his knuckles. Brief and soft.

Ciel slid Arthur’s wet finger from his mouth and they both lay still. He listened to the Doctor’s uneven breaths; Arthur knew what he had done. 

The man likely thought his host quite virtuous, though, an artless child. Or else he knew a trap when he saw one. And it was a trap, wasn’t it? For the man who was supposed to look, but not touch. The Watchdog’s watchman.

It hardly mattered. Arthur already believed their story. He wanted to believe. He had faith, the fool, and Ciel could do anything-- wrap his legs around the man’s hips, tucked close to the heat of his chest, his body, all night. His arms around Arthur’s neck. Hot breath in his hair. Listening to the storm above them.

He breathed out shakily.

It would be satisfying. Sebastian’s fury would be quite a performance. 

Ciel let go of Arthur’s hand. And pulled his leg away, a shift from the man’s feverish heat back to the cool sheets, and he rolled away to the other side of his pillow. Deep breath. Starched linen, lavender. The lingering sharpness of Arthur’s soap. The heavy chain dragged back across Ciel’s hip and clinked against itself beneath the bed.

Arthur rolled away slowly, too, and the covers tugged before they settled, and they were both quiet. 

Not entirely quiet. A little later Ciel heard the man’s soft noise and the miniscule shift of blankets. 

Oh dear, Mr Arthur. Required to relieve your own frustration. 

Ciel knew that feeling; and was that the thing he saw in Arthur’s face? That wanting.

It was amusing to see. Easy to have contempt for. But Ciel knew that feeling.

He curled up tighter. Tucked his cold hands between his thighs, into the folds of his nightgown, and tried not to listen to the wind outside.

*************

Ciel woke, and the cloudy morning light across his bedroom was all wrong. Too much of it. The wrong angle. The sun had been dragged to a different corner of the sky; an inversion, a perversion.

This was not his bedroom.

Arthur was sleeping soundly beside him. The man was still asleep, his limbs loose and inelegant. You could stab him in the neck before he even opened his eyes. 

Ciel rubbed his eye with a thoughtful fingertip.

Nobody had come up yet to call him; interesting. Although the guests might sleep until midday if they weren’t woken. Rich people are appallingly lazy.

Surely they’d found the butler’s body already. It was almost seven. 

The kitchen must be in chaos.

Ciel sat up, pulling the covers close around him; the fire had gone out, and he could see his breath in a long cloud. Another breath. In a grand house, the maid should have been in here at dawn to fix the fires, but in this house everybody relied far too much on the butler.

Ciel sighed, resting his chin on his tucked-up knees, and turned to look at the Doctor. 

How could the man sleep?

Ciel had slept for three hours. Four, perhaps, after he’d unfolded his butler’s letter and read it by the dim lamplight.

It was poison after all, apparently. And Lord Grey must be ruthless to betray the German; wise, though, because Siemens _alive_ would be a loose end. It’s better not to leave witnesses.

Ciel pushed his hand back under the pillow, feeling for the edge of paper. He’d have to find a way to leave his reply with the butler. Catch a moment alone and order him to replace the poison bottle-- and then they could proceed to framing Woodley. Grey wouldn’t make a fuss. He’d just be relieved to get away with murder, Siemen’s and the Phantomhive butler’s.

In this dull morning light, the darkened stain of blood on the pillow-case showed almost black. He hadn’t noticed that last night; Sebastian must have been covering an injury. Would it be bad? Enough to kill, evidently. 

And now the body would be somewhere in the house, if the damn demon had done his job properly, and wouldn’t that be a sight-- the creature had probably found a way to make even his _death_ an aesthetic arrangement. 

Actually, Ciel thought, now would be the perfect time to go and hunt him up before anyone was around, and make sure everything was running to schedule.

He would have to go very quietly. It would probably be in Siemen’s room. Perhaps Grey had followed the butler up to the office though, or even Sebastian’s bedroom; he’d have to check all the rooms in the dim morning chill. Watching for the snowy gleam of the butler’s shirt in the shadows. On the floor, or hidden in a corner. There would be blood.

Ciel’s hands were cold. And his stomach, and he lay down again, waiting through the ticking of the clock.

It was better to wait until Arthur woke up.

He tried to sleep again; the storm had abated somewhat, that was something.

Arthur’s sleeping lips were slightly parted. His hand was tucked under his cheek and he didn’t look very grown-up. How would he act when he woke? When he sat at the breakfast table with his host? He couldn't be _more_ awkward. There would probably be no difference at all. 

Some things feel different in daylight. Some sins dissolve once you step out of the shivering midnight into rational dawn.

Some things feel just the same.

Ciel counted the plaster panels on the ceiling.

He read Sebastian’s note again.

There would probably be fried sausages for breakfast, and salmon kedgeree. If Bard didn’t ruin everything. Where _was_ everyone this morning?

And it was almost ten when Ciel sat up with a sharp sigh, his stomach much too tight, and stirred Arthur’s shoulder.

‘There’s something wrong,’ he said, as the man rubbed his bleary face. ‘Sebastian hasn’t come to wake me.’

Arthur’s eyes widened as though he’d been bitten. He struggled upright, his expression blank. And then dismayed, and surely he hadn’t been expecting news like this?

Ciel didn’t have a chance to ask. Tanaka was at the door. Arthur was scrambling out of bed. And somewhere down the hallway a woman was screaming.

‘Oh dear,’ said Arthur, and it sounded like a curse. 

He ran.

And Ciel had to run to keep up, his bare toes flinching on the floor.

Arthur must be anxious. Falling, falling, a descent into hell, expecting the worst before they even rounded the corner of the hallway. And the man would be even unhappier once he found what was waiting for him-- 

That was Mey-rin’s voice, high and quavering. And Finny’s. Somebody was crying in there. This was going to be a mess.

Arthur stopped in the doorway.

So did Ciel.

‘Young master,’ said Finny. Hushed with horror. 

But Ciel wasn’t looking at Finny.

***********

‘Your clothes are ready, young master.’

Ciel didn’t open his eyes. He sank lower in the bath until the hot water lapped at his chin. ‘Hmph.’

Just one moment more.

‘The lunch-bell will ring in forty-five minutes.’ Tanaka’s patient voice from over near the door.

Ciel didn’t answer. He heard the man close the door again.

It wasn’t his own bath; just one of the guest bathrooms, the one with the rattling copper pipes and the yellow tiles. Not his chambers; Phelps was still occupying the master bedroom. This one smelled wrong. 

Tanaka didn’t offer to kneel beside the bath and wash him. 

And Ciel would not permit it if he had. That was the duty of a gentleman’s valet; and the earl didn’t have a valet. Only a butler. Who was dead. Apparently.

Ciel opened one eye, and poked his foot up out of the water. The dried edge of blood still showed along his toes, a dark trickle back into the bath. Not his blood for once, a pleasant change, but was it even blood at all?

It had been cold when he stepped in it, sticky under his toes beside the corpse.

Sebastian’s body had looked very human.

And very dead, as Arthur knelt down to inspect. The Doctor’s long fingers, very gentle, professional as a butler’s as he checked the pulse. Managing better than Finny, who’d been blubbering with tears. Crying, clinging-- did he expect everyone to behave as he did?

They’d expected something from him, that room full of shocked and curious eyes. They’d wanted a display. It had been simple enough to do, shouting and stamping. That’s what anger looks like, isn’t it?

But Mr Tanaka was right. The head of the Phantomhive house should never be upset by something so trivial as a servant’s death; the Master never had.

Ciel closed his eyes again. 

Arthur had asked Tanaka to watch over him, rather than doing it himself-- and that was good. Arthur knew he must keep himself both accountable and detached. He was giving himself space to understand things, and he wouldn’t object when Ciel asked him to lead an investigation into these deaths. 

That heavy smell this morning, metallic stench of pierced organs-- no aesthetic at all, only the raw scent of death, and that had been unexpected. A scent wound up in Ciel’s memory-- with wood fires and his mother’s perfume and cinnamon shortbread-- as _childhood._ Familiar as the aureole of blood on the carpet, the terrible limp body and its upturned face.

Ciel sank lower and the hot water dipped over his mouth. Tickled at his nostrils.

Every blow. Every sting of his open palm over Sebastian’s vile cold cheek-- oh, the beast deserved it. That cool insolent body had been so still when Ciel straddled it.

Had the demon known how it would stir up his master’s thoughts?

Ciel got out of the water, and wrapped himself up in the towel. It dragged on the floor as he left the bathroom.

And Tanaka had laid his master’s clothes out in the dressing room outside, and Ciel stopped. 

‘My lord,’ said the old man. ‘If you will.’

The suit was black. It was black, and a white shirt under; half-mourning, the sort you wear for a distant relative’s death. Or a most faithful servant.

Mr Tanaka made no mention of it.

Neither did Ciel.

He combed his own hair before they went down.

Lunch was laid out on the long table. It hadn’t been this full for years, and the guests’ voices filled the room-- not an echo, because the heavy drapes and rich carpets dampened each spare sound, but a humming in the air. 

It was worse than when his aunt and uncle visited.

The food looked good, though. Ciel poked at it with his fork. The potatoes were roasted, oiled to a golden sheen. 

The chef had been very organised.

The chef had not been Bard.

Ciel sighed. 

An inferior servant is unreliable by definition. A devious servant might occasionally be unreliable to prove a point. But only Sebastian would be able to complete his tasks in the sharpest perfection and make it feel like a personal insult.

The demon must have spent half his night in preparation. And now he was dead to the world, stuck waiting in the cellar while the storm raged and the mystery deepened. He was probably delighted to hear them all praise his cooking; the creature grasped for attention sometimes. 

Ciel let his guests’ babbling voices wash over him. Tomorrow the detectives would arrive from Scotland Yard and they would believe what they were told, what Arthur and the others explained: _the Earl is innocent. Woodley is behind this._

And everyone could go home. Things would be as they always were.

But Lord Grey was pointing to the empty place at the table, and Ciel was putting down his fork and sitting upright, and something else was wrong.

He hadn’t been listening. Phelps was missing.

Arthur stood up. ‘Shouldn't we go and look in the earl’s bedroom?’ And his young face was darkened, serious.

Ciel stood too, putting down his napkin. Everyone was watching him now. ‘I’ll take you up there,’ he said, and then they were all stampeding upstairs again, eager and anxious, like children on Christmas morning. 

Finny was following. Mey-rin dropped her tray and her boots were heavy on the steps behind them. _Running._ Hell, they couldn’t wait to find another corpse, could they? 

Ciel’s breath was tight in his chest as they reached the door of the master bedroom. _Running._ Hell--

‘Where’s the key?’ Arthur was asking. 

‘I don’t know,’ said Ciel. Nor did he. ‘There’s only one key to my room, and Sebastian kept it.’

That wasn’t the problem, though. Grey got the door open.

Ciel’s stomach churned. And the problem wasn’t Finny clinging onto him, picking him up and swinging him away as the door shattered and Miss Irene squealed and they all got into the sitting room of the earl’s chambers.

The real trouble was inside the bedroom. Phelps. Sprawled on the floor.

Livid, greenish. Dying. Dead. 

And this was not part of the plan.

*********

The stone steps echoed as the group made their way down from the store kitchen towards the cellars; Bard led with the lantern. Finny and Arthur next, and Lord Grey.

And Ciel followed slowly, his cane tapping on the stone steps.

The air smelled damp. He’d have to order Sebastian to check the humidity levels down here once all this was over; there was several thousand pounds’ worth of wine being cellared down here. No point wasting it to mildew.

He’d have to write the demon a note.

He didn’t need to write a note at all. The demon could hear him. 

Ciel sniffed thoughtfully, 

_Sebastian. Are you listening?_

Some people pray to God. But God had never answered him. 

_Phelps is dead; he was injected in the neck with something. I wonder what news you have to tell me about that. And Arthur has taken charge of the investigation-- he’s doing his job exactly as we want him to._ With his notebook and pencil, ever the writer, and an air of great seriousness. 

_They’re getting restless, Sebastian. They’ve realised that one of their number must be guilty. Woodley lost his temper and struck Arthur. It helps our case; Arthur will be biased against the man now._

Arthur’s lip was still bruised and thickened from the blow-- heavy knuckles and heavy rings.

 _I imagine being struck with a ring must be quite painful. Would you agree?_ Ciel’s mouth twitched.

_And Woodley was presumptuous enough to attempt to hit me too. Tanaka was very firm with him, though; he hasn’t lost his touch. He is a satisfactory butler in your absence._

_And Mey-rin told us you ordered her to send an owl. An owl? What the bloody hell was that for?_

Bard had stopped at the end of the stone corridor. ‘This way,’ he said, and they followed the low bounce of his lantern. There was no electric lighting down here. It was dim, medieval. 

‘The sort of place you could find a ghost,’ Arthur was saying; the man was quite fanciful. Ghosts? Not far wrong, Doctor.

_Whoever killed Phelps must have your key, Sebastian. The plan is to search your body for it. Which will be most entertaining, I should think._

Perhaps the creature couldn’t hear him. Perhaps he wasn’t even down here, if he’d been caught out poking around the place while he was supposed to be dead, and Ciel almost hoped. _That_ would take the damn demon some wriggling to explain later.

Perhaps if Ciel concentrated, he’d hear the shadow of an answer in his thoughts. A suggestion, a sense. He’d had that once, a long time ago when they were small, perhaps--

‘Here we go,’ said Bard, unlatching the heavy cellar door. And the corridor arched up into the vast space, vaulted and cool with shadows.

Arthur was pulling back the canvas blanket from one of the three bodies on the cellar floor. And he was stopping. ‘He’s _wet_.’

Bard frowned up at the vaulted stone above them. ‘Looks like a leak somewhere.’ 

Or perhaps the butler’s corpse had gone for a walk out in this dreadful weather. But nobody made this suggestion.

Sebastian was dripping, actually, his dampened hair in strands across his eyes. Still more rumpled than Ciel had ever seen him; and pale as death. 

Nothing new there.

 _Busy night, Sebastian?_ He let the words linger in his mind. Perhaps they would echo clearly in his servant’s. _I think you’re going to like this part._

‘Alright, we gotta turn him over,’ Bard was saying.

‘You can’t!’ Finny’s voice was noisy under the vaulted arches. ‘You can’t treat Mr Sebastian like an _object_ , you can’t just--’

Ciel didn’t turn his head. ‘Finny,’ he said. ‘If you’re going to have this pointless conversation, you might as well leave.’ He crouched beside his butler’s body, lifting the edge of Sebastian’s jacket. ‘It’s a nuisance.’

Finny was quiet. 

Bard had brought gloves. And Ciel tugged them on before he reached for the fine silver chain across the butler’s waistcoat.

The watch slipped from the fob pocket and sat cold in Ciel’s palm.

‘The key’s not attached here,’ he said, and Bard and Arthur glanced at each other.

‘Could he have it around his neck?’ asked Grey, who was poking around the barrels with the tip of his sword.

‘Maybe,’ Bard said hesitantly.

Ciel stood up. ‘Alright, then,’ he said. ‘Start with his coat.’

Bard sighed as he began.

The butler’s crisp shirt-sleeves were nearly dry under the sodden tailcoat. And then Bard was undoing the tailored waistcoat, and it showed the gasp of blood between the black suspender straps. 

Ciel bit his lip. Had he ever seen the butler without his vest? 

And Bard undid the spattered collar carefully, and the top shirt-buttons, and the bared collarbone was white and deeply carved. The hollow of Sebastian’s throat. Cold, pulseless. Had he stilled his heartbeat? Oh, the beast was doing this _well_.

‘And his shirt.’ 

The slow unbuttoning. Bard’s fingers were clumsy. And the skin beneath was stained, smeared, darkening with crusted blood and gashed wide between the gaping horror of the ribs. 

The expanse of Sebastian’s pale belly was a dip below his shattered chest. The edges of the wound were purpling, mottled deathlike. And above it his bared nipples, startlingly dark against bruised ivory skin.

Ciel swallowed hard. 

The smear and slime of thickened blood, the foamy spatter of punctured lung. 

‘Bleeding hell,’ Arthur whispered.

‘Now the trousers,’ said Ciel.

Bard obeyed. He unbuttoned the long flies of the black wool, that row of pewter buttons-- oh, Ciel knew every one of them. And Bard glanced back over his shoulder, hesitant.

‘Everything off,’ said Ciel. It was thin and breathless. 

Arthur was assisting, now. And between the two of them they shuffled the butler’s trousers down, and off, and Ciel stared. Unblinking. 

His hips were narrow, a ridge beneath the taut pale skin. Unmarked. His long slim legs.

And his cock bare and softened, plump in the curl of dark hair.

There,’ said Bard. ‘That’s everything.’ Rather unnecessarily, Ciel thought. 

The demon’s chest didn’t move, not even a shadow of breath, of life. But his body was spread, stripped naked at Ciel’s feet. Pale and naked and unmoving as a creature dragged dead from the ocean, damp. Too human. Almost pitiful.

‘Dress him again,’ said Ciel. ‘There’s nothing here worth seeing.’

‘No key.’ Arthur was re-buttoning the butler’s clothes. ‘Perhaps in his room?’

Ciel pulled off the gloves and reached for his cane. ‘Let’s go and see.’

He led the way this time, up to the main hall. And up two more flights of stairs, past the living areas to the main bedrooms. Turn right at the end of the hallway to the service stairs. And here the steps were clean and bare and wooden, and everybody’s feet stomped too noisily, and it smelled like hay and birds. 

The garret floor, and its row of blank closed doors. In a normal manor house there would be ten housemaids living up here with the housekeeper, but this wasn’t a normal house.

Ciel opened the door at the end. ‘This is Sebastian’s room.’

Strange to stand up here in the sparse bright room, with its bare walls and timber floorboards. The tidy dresser. The desk. The bed-- had it ever been slept in?

Arthur had his sleeves rolled up already, opening the drawers. Checking under the mattress. Looking in human hiding places. 

The servants didn’t know where anything was, either.

‘It’s our first time in here,’ said Bard. Unhappily. Did he think he should have been friends with the head butler?

‘I’ve only been in here twice,’ said Ciel. Once in the first few weeks after their return to this house, when he’d come storming up here one night to demand cinnamon on his baked custard next time. A bare excuse; he’d wanted to see if the demon had settled into this bedroom. But it had looked as bare and clean as ever, and empty too. Sebastian was never up here. And Ciel hadn’t returned.

Until the second time, when Prince Soma had been playing hide and seek and hadn’t come down for lunch, and Ciel had come up here on a suspicion and found Soma poking around in all the empty rooms. 

He’d opened the door and peered in, just in case. But the room, as always, was impersonal as a pair of pressed gloves. An empty shell of something human-shaped.

‘The key’s not here,’ said Arthur, with his head stuck under the bed.

Ciel stooped to inspect the top of the dresser. Opening the collar boxes. No dust, no fingerprints on the mirror. Does a demon have fingerprints? He tried to recall Sebastian’s cool fingertips. Had they felt human? Over his bare skin, down his body. Between his lips.

Ciel cleared his throat. He closed the drawers. Crossed to the wardrobe.

‘Oh bloody--’ He sneezed. Stepped back. And the dim interior, the tumble of cats within the wardrobe was a shudder in his belly like relief, a stir of something, that obscenity of wailing fur and squirming cat-piss stench.

Who on earth keeps a nest of animals hidden amongst their hanging jackets?

Oh, he was something, something, his demon. His butler. But it wasn’t a man.

‘Cats,’ said Ciel.

‘Cats?’ Arthur’s face was blank.

‘Cats!’ said Finny, and swept one over his arm before it could skitter under the bed with the others. ‘Oh, this one’s a girl cat. She’s so soft. Do you want to hold her, young master?’

Ciel was feeling his pocket for a handkerchief. ‘Don’t bring the damn things anywhere near me.’ His eyes were watery. 

‘Not here either,’ said Grey, shoving the dresser drawers back in. ‘The butler has no personal possessions. Nothing from home.’

Ciel made a rude noise into his handkerchief.

‘Where did he come from?’ Grey was asking, dusting off his palms.

Bard didn’t answer immediately. ‘Don’t know, exactly.’ He shrugged at Finny. ‘None of the servants know where he’s from, or even what he does on his days off.’ 

‘None of us knew him,’ Finny said quietly. ‘Maybe the young master knows more.’

‘No,’ said Ciel. 

No. I don’t know him. Only in the Biblical sense. But what is there to know?

The afternoon was tedious.

The key hadn’t been found, so everyone had to reconvene in the yellow drawing room. Lau had been drinking tea all morning and was in a fine mood. Woodley was still sullen about being thrown off his feet by Mr Tanaka. 

And everyone’s luggage had to be searched, which turned up precisely what Ciel had expected: nothing at all.

He’d half expected Sebastian to assist them by now and leave the bloody key somewhere-- on a table, something convenient. The bastard wasn’t exactly doing anything else with his time.

And the servants had all trooped out into the pouring rain to look for it, because Lau, the slinking creature, _Lau_ had suggested that Sebastian might have tossed it out a window. 

Finny had volunteered to search. He was tiresome sometimes, those outbursts. Tears and things. But he was committed to his job, and sometimes it was difficult to stay angry with him.

Ciel stood at the rain-smeared window and watched his guests’ reflections in the glass; the actress, warming her hands at the fire. Arthur frowning over his notes. Lau, half-dozing with Ran-mao’s smooth head on his shoulder. Woodley tapping his foot briskly against the coffee table.

Grimsby wanted to go and get playing cards from his room.

The tension was nagging at them all. They were anxious.

It was natural. They needed to react aloud, spilling out their thoughts. Their horror, disgust, Fear. This is when you see people as they truly are-- in shock, under pressure.

Arthur was doing well, though. Unwavering. Determined to make sense of all this.

This madhouse, this mystery. 

_And how is your day going, Sebastian?_

**********

A new face deserves a new name.

The demon smiled experimentally in the mirror as he fastened his collar. High, clean, clerical. A minister of the church, how _fun_. 

Now he only needed a worthy name for this atrocity.

 _Matthew Hopkins_ had a nice ring to it. Not quite as elegant as the French _Michaelis_ , but this one had been witch-finder, too; narrow-minded, murderous, British, just beginning his third century of torment in the lower pits of Hell. A mortal is assigned to Hell according to a clever little graph, charting ‘amount of pain caused to other living things’ versus ‘generalised feelings of remorse’, and Hell does a good business out of religious types.

The demon smirked, tugging on his gloves as he descended from his bedroom.

Hopkins. Yes, that had a nice ring to it. He could say he was visiting up from London, which was true-- he’d gone all the way into the city on those blind stormy roads just to secure a ticket from the Lyceum Theatre. An alibi. He was truly blank and blameless now, reborn.

And here he was, climbing out a hallway window and dropping into the garden bed below. Crossing the empty darkened garden with the ticket in his pocket and a sleeping owl in his briefcase. 

_That_ should keep the little prick guessing. 

_My day is going well, young master. Almost as eventful as your own._

The servants were chattering in the kitchen; their voices hummed in his ears even through wood and stone. They were lost without their head butler. And they were about to meet confusion.

Oh, the chaos: a fox slinking into a hen-house. A hawk dropped into a dove-cote.

The demon stood on the back kitchen steps of Phantomhive Manor and knocked three times.

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to dear Sinnergy for the beta!  
> I can't believe this is Chapter 17.  
> Only three left, unholy heck.  
> To say I'm EXCITED is an understatement *insert distant squealing* and I'm so honoured that you guys have followed the story this far!  
> The next update will be December 13...


	18. citra {this side of}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, late but twice as long as usual. Also illustrated! Thanks to dear [Hom](https://twitter.com/cielleveilleur) for the gorgeous drawings.

Ciel had never been the superstitious type.

 _Thirteen._ It was only a number. And perhaps, to a culture whose measurement of time had been built around the superiority of the number twelve, hours and months-- the number thirteen might have a subconscious meaning. Excess, imbalance. The devil’s dozen.

But still just a number. It didn’t warrant the widened eyes and gaping mouths around the room.

‘A thirteenth guest?’ Woodley was shaking his head curtly. ‘Preposterous. There is absolutely no chance of it.’

The others were waiting wide-eyed. 

‘Absolutely?’ repeated Lau with a sort of gentleness. This had been his idea, seemingly plucked from the air like smoke, but he was warming to his subject. ‘There are no absolutes in this world. And if that is the case, then anything could be possible…’

Miss Irene looked at Lau. And around the room, and now everyone’s eyes were bright with something else: hope. 

Ciel bit his lip.

Of course they’d want to believe this. It put the blame elsewhere. The murderer must be _other_ , elsewhere, a stranger-- they’d believe anything to shift the blame from those gathered in this room.

Lau sat on the sofa, holding their attention as though he wasn’t even aware of it. ‘This stranger could be hiding in wait for his chance to kill the next of us.’ Dreamily, settling his pipe back between his lips. ‘He could be very close.’

It was actually a reasonable theory. Reasonable enough that Arthur might have come to the same conclusion.

Ciel looked over at him but the man was frowning down at his notepad, tapping a pencil against his chin. ‘Perhaps, perhaps,’ Arthur was muttering. ‘This would explain the anomalous times of death.’

‘No,’ said Woodley irritably, ‘if there was somebody else in the house they would have been noticed by now. This is ridiculous.’

‘Young master!’ The door thumped open and Bard burst in with Finny in a flurry behind him.

‘Young master--’ Finny’s cheeks were red with excitement. ‘We caught somebody hanging around outside--’

Ciel opened his mouth to protest against the unforgivable intrusion. At the impossibility, no, there couldn’t be _anyone_ else in the house. But Bard was gesturing impatiently to the figure in the doorway between them and Ciel found no words.

‘Come on now,’ Bard said over his shoulder, and the man obeyed.

He was a stranger. His arms were bound at his sides but he looked quite calm as he stepped into the room. Sleek, tall, thin as a twig in his tidy dark suit, his neat clerical collar. An austere face, hard-boned, and he looked at Ciel across the room. Dark eyes. Rather piercing.

The man was not a stranger. 

Ciel swallowed hard. He would have known it even if his skin hadn’t flinched suddenly. His poisoned eye stung hot as though something had seared it. 

_I know you. Much too well._

Something tightened in his chest. And something loosened.

And everyone in the room was staring at the man too. But they were staring for the wrong reason. If even one of them were to realise what was happening here, if the Queen’s Butler saw through it all and pulled their plot to pieces--

‘He was real?’ Outrage from Lord Grey. No accusations, at least.

And Woodley stood up. ‘This-- this is the killer?’ 

Only Lau appeared to take it calmly, and he rose to his feet with a light flutter of laughter. ‘To think the thirteenth guest would show up so soon. Even I am a little surprised.’ He flicked a slow glance at the newcomer. ‘So. Who are you, then?’

The man was smiling. 

Ciel clenched his hands behind his back. This bloody demon. A disguise. A bloody disguise, and he probably had a whole story ready-- or did the creature intend to make this up as he went along? Scampering through danger like a dog over a frozen pond. Chased by the sound of cracking ice behind him. Laughing, probably. 

And this was not part of the plan.

The stranger drew in a slow breath. ‘My name?’ 

But Ciel wasn’t in the mood for a story today. He cleared his throat. ‘It’s been a while, Jeremy.’

For one long second the creature looked back at Ciel.

‘Earl,’ said Lau with a delighted smile, ‘you know this old man?’ He looked much, _much_ too amused by all this but Ciel didn’t have time to calculate how much he might have figured out. How much he might suspect. Lau was not the danger here. It was the others, everyone, Arthur--

‘Yes,’ said Ciel, and he crossed to the stranger’s side. The not-stranger. He didn’t look up at the calm face. ‘This is Jeremy Rathbone. He is an advisor at the local church. Something of a famous person.’

‘A vicar?’ Arthur was asking, his face doubtful as he put down his notepad. He didn’t stand up from the sofa, only leaned his elbows on his knees.

Woodley pointed furiously. ‘The _only_ person who could have committed these murders is the thirteenth guest. No alibi. It _has_ to be this man--’

‘Actually,’ said the creature that wasn’t Jeremy Rathbone, ‘your reasoning is utter nonsense, Mr Woodley.’ 

And the demon was beginning to spout one of his long-winded bits of nonsense, about diamonds and jewellers, spinning some tale to explain why he knew exactly who Woodley was-- as certain as if he were a detective and not a vicar at all. _More_ certain. Only one living creature had that unspeakable self assurance and Ciel waited breathlessly to see if anyone else could see it. 

That flavour of being, that indefinable but quite unmistakable air of smug competence. The suggestion of suggestiveness. Those warm and dangerous eyes.

 _Sebastian_ , said Ciel in his mind, and the creature’s gaze slid from Woodley to glance at him. And away again. The flow of his words didn’t even pause.

‘--if you consider that one of the people invited to the Earl’s evening party is wearing such a rare ring,’ the demon was saying, ‘it is most likely the Director of the Woodley Company. In other words-- you.’

And the guests appeared to be accepting it. Still in shock, still too eager to be told what to think. 

‘Am I wrong?’ asked Jeremy. 

Woodley was indignantly silent.

‘More importantly,’ said Arthur, getting slowly to his feet, ‘how-- _why_ , and since when have you been here?’ He was watching the man, unsmiling, rolling his pencil between his fingers.

Jeremy huffed. ‘You,’ he said to Bard, ‘open my bag.’

Ciel hadn’t even noticed the cook was holding it, a big black leather thing like a doctor’s case. He stepped over to have a look himself as Bard opened it.

‘Wah--’ from Finny. Flustered. ‘This is Mr Sebastian’s _owl_.’

It was indeed. A soft huddle of feathers, and Ciel looked up at the man. 

Jeremy flashed him a tight smile. ‘Please look at the letter on its claw.’

Ciel unrolled it carefully.

There was nothing. The page was blank, and he crumpled it in his fist. Even now there was no truce, and the demon laid traps for him at every corner.

Everyone was waiting, though. Watching him. Woodley and Miss Irene and Grimsby, Lau with that fixed small smile, the anxious servants. Lord Grey, and that pretentious little prick’s puzzlement was a satisfaction in Ciel’s stomach. Arthur, who’d been given charge of this case this morning and seemed ready to question everything.

‘Young master,’ said Mey-rin. ‘What did Mr Sebastian say?’

Jeremy was smiling down at him. 

Ciel closed his eyes. Sebastian had sent this owl with the letter, hadn’t he? Before his murder. But surely he hadn’t been planning even _then_.

Perhaps he’d considered it worthwhile in return for his master’s bemusement.

‘It seems that Sebastian anticipated his own death,’ Ciel said, and he kept his voice calm. ‘He sent a letter to Jeremy last night.’ 

‘That doesn’t prove anything,’ said Grimsby, his voice rising, ‘just a piece of _paper_ \-- he came from outside the house and he could easily be the murderer.’

‘There is a simple solution to the lack of evidence,’ said Jeremy, with infinite disdain. Perfect calm. ‘If you’ll check my coat pocket--’

Finny rummaged, and pulled out the slip of paper. 

A theatre ticket, oh damnation. And Ciel winced. ‘What’s the date?’ 

Finny frowned over the printed words. ‘Yesterday, it’s for the evening show--’ but Ciel wasn’t listening any more. Of course the date would be correct. And the demon probably had back-up evidence for his evidence, down to the last detail. It didn’t even matter if he didn’t, because he was quite capable of _talking_ them into belief, this quick flow of confident words, and everyone was listening. 

‘There are as many ways of getting to a result as there are stars above,’ the demon was saying. The vicar. The butler. The _thing_. ‘But there is only one truth.’

And is that the case? Was he still bound to tell the truth here if the question wasn’t from his master’s lips? Because Sebastian could never believe a thing like that. Singular truth indeed. There was nothing singular about the demon, only duplicity. Multiplicity. 

Ciel folded his arms, watching Arthur’s reaction. The doctor was immersed in his thoughts, avoiding his gaze, and when he finally met Ciel’s eyes he was serious, focused. As he had been all day. And the man turned to Jeremy. 

‘What you’re saying is-- you cannot be involved because you were in London last night.’ There was a steady note in Arthur’s voice. ‘Am I right?’

Jeremy smiled. ‘As expected of a master novelist, you manage to get right to the heart of the matter.’

Of course they were going to untie him after that. After the man read Arthur’s whole history from his hands and his shirt-cuffs, and offered to help them. And how the devil was he doing this? Herding everyone into the drawing room. Taking control of their curious little puzzle so smoothly. Commanding all the attention in the room, while Ciel seated himself and watched the guests’ faces.

And Jeremy, too, that distant hard expression as he considered. Elbows propped on the chair arms, long gloved fingers aligned. Steepled carefully. Sebastian had never done that.

But Ciel did. Often. Was the slippery bastard mocking him?

The guests were all fascinated. Pouring out the entire murderous story to the Reverend Rathbone. Willing to suspend their suspicions, like children at a Christmas pantomime-- dazzled by the lights, the magic show.

Even Arthur.

And it was a masterful performance. You wouldn’t see it if you weren’t watching for it, and even so, Ciel doubted it once. Twice. Doubted his own mind in favour of his eyes, which is a dangerous thing.

But oh, the brisk clap of the vicar’s gloved hands when he called them to attention. And his glittering look across at the earl.

‘I see,’ Jeremy was saying. ‘Could I see the bodies? They will tell me the truth.’

And how did the demon plan to manage that? The staff would be expecting three corpses. 

‘Of course,’ said Arthur slowly. ‘We’ll take you down.’

‘Move the bodies to three different rooms,’ said Jeremy. He arched his brows, dark head tilted, and that was _definitely_ a Sebastianism right there.

Ciel stood up, brushing down his jacket. This still wasn’t a satisfactory plan. The demon would need a butler’s jacket if they were to--

‘My lord earl. Will you allow me to change my clothes in the meantime?’

Ciel pursed his lips. ‘Very well.’ Perhaps Sebastian had a plan after all. But he was demanding an annoying amount of improvising. Ciel glanced up at the vicar as he passed. ‘I suspect that the clothing of my predecessor will be a little small for you. But we can lend you something that belonged to the dead butler.’

That was probably a lie. The previous Earl of Phantomhive had been a tall man. Ciel could remember the silhouette of that fine dark head against the doorway. Against the paintings in the dining room, the swaying white roses along the garden paths. Perhaps his clothes would have fitted this creature after all. 

But there were none left hanging in the dressing room. It wasn’t his father’s bedroom any more. 

The demon was following him out the doorway. Walking beside him. Would he have questions? He’d most certainly have something to say. About Woodley. About Arthur. Ciel felt his throat tighten. There were too many things he wanted to say himself. He couldn’t think of any of them.

He waited until they were out in the hallway and heading up the stairs for the servants’ quarters. 

‘You look as though your evening is going well, Jeremy.’

The demon’s look was vivid. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you too, sir.’ 

The chatter of the guests was already behind them as they reached the upper floor. 

‘How did you manage?’

‘I managed.’ Almost a snarl. Saving his breath. Was Sebastian tired? Even for an immortal it could not have been a pleasant night, an iron poker through the ribs and hours playing dead, limp on the floor.

‘You and your disguises,’ muttered Ciel. ‘A vicar, of all things. If I have ordered you to be always truthful does this count as a lie?’

‘It was you who named me, sir.’ The demon’s dark eyes narrowed in this stranger’s face. ‘ _Rathbone._ If even one of the guests investigates the local church they will know I’m most certainly not a man of God.’

‘It wouldn’t take an investigation to discover that. And the character is working, isn’t it?’ Really, thought Ciel. What did the beast expect? He’d had to come up with something. Steer things back into his own path. ‘I suppose you have a plan.’

‘Of course I have a plan, sir. One should not simply step into a dangerous situation and hope to improvise.’

‘Well? Out with it.’ As they rounded the landing. Wooden steps here. High in the house.

‘I am here to investigate the murders.’

‘Arthur’s already doing that.’

‘And I shall ensure that he finds the clues we choose.’

‘I’m already doing that.’

‘And you required no assistance of any kind?’

‘Hmph. Is it entirely necessary?’

‘If you wish me to play this game on your behalf, young master, you must allow me a little license to play it as I wish.’

And then they were at the butler’s bedroom door, and Jeremy was pushing inside. Throwing open the wardrobe and pulling off his jacket. He was _quick_ , oh, because the servants were already heading to the cellar to move the corpses and one was missing. _One_ was standing up here in the servant’s garret tearing the theatrical mask from his face. Wiping a smear of greasepaint from his cheeks. Rumpling his hair. Frowning at the mirror as he reached for his black waistcoat.

And there he was. Long-lashed, bitter. Beautiful, terrible. Perfect. His demon. 

Sebastian looked back over his shoulder. A definite glare.

‘No need,’ said Ciel. ‘I’ve already seen you naked.’

‘I recall.’ Shortly as he pulled his service jacket on.

‘Oh. Are you upset about that?’

‘How would you manage if you were put in such a position?’

‘Don’t change the subject.’

But Sebastian was gone. The door slammed. 

Ciel folded his arms, stiffening at a scrabbling sound beneath the iron-framed bed. A cat poked its pointed nose out, and disappeared again. And Ciel looked up at the bare timber ceiling, the whitewashed plaster walls. Clean. Functional. 

Not as comfortable as his own room, but good enough for a servant.

Cold. No fireplace at all. Do demons feel the cold? 

He heard the clatter of heels before the demon threw the door open again, tugging off his jacket already. 

‘Well?’ And Sebastian was resuming the conversation as if he hadn’t even left. ‘I cannot imagine you’d enjoy it either, sir. Required to appear in a state of undress, very publicly.’

Ciel sniffed. ‘This line of argument is irrelevant.’

‘Forced to strip naked. In front of utter strangers.’

‘Answer the question. Did it upset you?’

‘I’m almost tempted to request the same of you, my lord.’

‘I shall take that as a yes.’ 

Sebastian smoothed the dark hair back from his eyes. His glance was sharp, peculiar. 

And he was gone again, grabbing the mask on his way out, and the door swung loose in his wake.

The mask, the disguise was more than paint; the paint was only a prop. 

The demon could change his form whenever he wanted. He could slide into a new skin as easy as thinking.

Ciel bit his lip as he made his way downstairs again. Everyone would be waiting for him to inspect the bodies laid out by Bard and Finny. In three separate bedrooms; Sebastian would have to be clever about it, quick as a fairground shell game and twice as conniving. 

But he was a Phantomhive servant. Even dead, disguised, walking his master’s halls with another name-- the demon would not disappoint him. Not if Ciel had anything to do with it. They would need to work together to fix this thing and everything else must wait. Even if was only the pretence at a truce. And it was good to be working. Playing, or acting, or whatever this part was called-- convincing this house full of unbiased adult witnesses to believe exactly what they were told. Navigating Lord Grey’s treachery and orchestrating Woodley’s downfall.

It was almost enough to stop him from thinking. 

******************

At half-past three Tanaka brought him up a tray of tea, and Ciel received it in the library. He sipped and winced as the old man closed the door quietly behind him; the tea was good enough, but Ciel was accustomed to perfection.

The kitchen would be a mess, too. A day without the head butler and everything was probably on fire already. 

Ciel closed his eyes in the warm silence of the empty room. A most disturbed night’s slumber, and he was feeling it now. And no hope of a better sleep tonight-- he’d probably be stuck with Arthur again. 

Not unpleasant. No. But a distraction.

It wouldn’t happen, anyway. Sebastian would find some way of changing everybody’s plans. He’d done that all afternoon-- inspecting the three corpses and announcing his theories upon each death with all the confident finality of a priest in the pulpit. 

Siemens had been stabbed once, but was intoxicated at the time of death; this Ciel already knew from Sebastian’s note.

Phelps had been poisoned, it seemed, perhaps through an injection to the neck. Ciel had no idea about this one, but Grey must have been behind this too-- for what purpose though, beyond the humiliation and pressure upon the Phantomhive’s title as Watchdog?

Examining the dead butler’s body had not been so simple. Maybe the demon had managed to rummage up a convincing double. Or maybe he’d hoped to bluff his way through with misdirection somehow-- either way Ciel hadn’t waited to find out. He wasn’t about to trust Sebastian’s scheme without a bit of intervention of his own. Simple enough. A moment’s pretence at dizziness and Arthur had been _utterly_ distracted, attending to his host while Ciel clung to the man’s arm and feigned weakness.

A humiliating display, in one regard, fascinating in another. Arthur was concerned for him. That would be useful.

And Jeremy had searched over the Earl’s bedroom quite dispassionately, examining the scene of Phelps’ death, and announced that there were multiple killers after all. That it would be tricky to catch the second murderer, and that the earl’s assistance would be required.

That was a problem. Ciel hadn’t foreseen this.

He folded his arms, bouncing his heel against the chair-leg. A second murderer. And the blasted demon wasn’t going to explain it to him further. If it had been a serious deviation from their strategy he’d surely warn his master, so it must be a manageable development. It wasn’t one of the other guests, no matter what suspicious red liquid had been found in Miss Irene’s luggage. 

He needed to ask Sebastian. 

_Why didn’t you simply explain it? Why the hell did you feel the need to dress up and interfere?_

And the other. 

_Why didn’t you intervene when it might have actually been useful?_ Such as last night when Grey had produced that infernal chain and cuffs. Sebastian had provided no clever escape. No protest. 

Perhaps he’d liked the thought of his master’s discomfiture, the bastard. 

He deserved a proper punishment for that. More than this morning’s tease, although that had been satisfying-- the demon playing dead, unable to answer him back or flash that wicked look at him or even flinch. The impact of Ciel’s open palm on Sebastian’s cold cheek. The bite of his heavy rings in his servant’s flesh. The stillness of his limp body, as unresisting as Arthur’s in the dark, and Ciel had ground himself harder against Sebastian’s chest. 

That had been good. Power, as it ought to be.

And now the hell-spawn had swept back into the story, as arrogant as if he owned the place.

He needed time alone with Sebastian. He could weather the demon’s inevitable arrogance, the flippant dismissal of his own concerns. The beast’s indignation over that little punishment he’d been given this morning, and _whatever_ he might have to say about Arthur--

It would be tiresome. It would be a mess. But Ciel would rather know. He’d always rather know, about all of it; this wasn’t a matter of trust.

The library door opened somewhere behind him and Ciel rubbed his temple slowly. He should have gone to his desk. This room was open to his guests, of course; maybe in his office he’d have found some privacy.

Too late.

‘ _There_ you are.’ Lau’s silk shoes were soundless on the carpet. ‘We were looking for you, Earl.’

Ran-Mao’s shadow moved at the edge of the room, at the window. The door. Checking under the table. Absently as a cat nosing around a new room but she was _very_ good at her job and Ciel knew better than to underestimate these two. Her quick black eyes. Lau’s half-closed ones.

‘Yes,’ said Ciel, ‘here I am.’ He re-crossed his legs. 

‘You’re all alone up here?’ Lau was pretending to read the gold-stamped titles on the bookshelf beside Ciel’s chair. 

‘Of course.’

‘Oh? Oh. I thought that vicar might have been around somewhere. He seems to have a lot of ideas.’

‘Hm.’

‘An interesting fellow.’ Lau’s slitted gaze was too knowing. 

Ciel stayed silent.

‘But you have always had a talent for collecting extraordinary people, haven’t you, Earl. Your business associates--’ A sweeping bow, which was the falsest sort of humility. ‘Your servants.’

And Ciel didn’t like where this conversation was leading. ‘One must surround oneself with useful tools. You run a business yourself, Lau. I’m sure you understand that.’

Lau turned away on his heel. He might have winked. ‘It is quite a sight to see, your house so busy and everybody having such a marvellous time.’

Ciel turned back to his tea. ‘We are investigating a triple murder. In case it had escaped your attention.’

‘Alright,’ Lau said smoothly. ‘ _Almost_ everyone is having a marvellous time.’

‘One of those killed was my servant. I can’t speak for the others, but I’m finding this quite inconvenient.’

The door rattled again and Ciel sat up straighter. It was about time Sebastian came to talk to him properly.

But it was Arthur’s crumpled head peering around the bookshelves. 

‘I shall leave you two alone,’ said Lau, in that despicable drawling voice that made Ciel want to kick him in the shins. But at least he was going. And Ran-mao fell into step at his heels, glancing back at the doctor curiously as he approached the fireplace.

The library door clicked shut.

Arthur hesitated. ‘My lord-- I’m not disturbing you?’

 _Yes, you are_ , thought Ciel. _I’m drinking my afternoon tea in my library._

‘No,’ he said. 

‘Ah, good, good--’ A little distractedly. ‘I was hoping I could talk to you. This vicar. Rathbone--’

‘Yes.’ Ciel waited.

‘It’s lucky he turned up.’

‘Very.’ Ciel was not going to be drawn out upon this subject.

‘His method appears to be-- scientific.’ Arthur sighed, though, and he didn’t seem completely happy about it.

‘It does seem to be the most logical approach to crime-solving,’ Ciel said. But he didn't plan to have this entire conversation looking up at Arthur like a child being lectured. He put down his book, and stood up.

He was all too aware that it didn’t add much to his height.

It was pleasant to note how the man stepped back, though. 

‘Oh, of course, I was not about to object to that. Well, then--’ and now Arthur was searching for words, piecing them together before he tried to say them, and that was never a good sign. 

Was he going to offer his condolences over the butler’s death? He hadn’t tried that yet. Perhaps it would have been better if Ciel hadn’t made that fuss while Jeremy was inspecting the bodies this afternoon-- emotion has to appear consistent to be taken seriously. That seemed to be how it worked.

Ciel sighed.

And Arthur began. ‘It must be a difficult time for your household. Entertaining guests whilst under the shadow of such a threat.’

Oh, general commiserations. That was a relief. 

‘This is a terrible situation, my lord.’ 

_Obviously._

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. ‘It is.’

‘You-- ah. You seem to be managing quite well, though.’

‘My servants are handling things admirably. They are well-accustomed to successfully coordinating challenges.’

‘I meant you-- personally.’

And Ciel wasn’t expecting that. He frowned. Just because he wasn’t fretting in a jittering heap like the others? He was an earl. He was supposed to maintain his composure. And he wasn’t acting entirely unfeeling; the man _had_ seen his little performance with Sebastian’s corpse, hadn’t he?

Arthur was waiting, his face calm and serious. His words hadn’t been criticism. He didn’t suspect his host of anything untoward. Not in the area of the murders, anyway, and Ciel moved away from that thought swiftly. But Arthur didn’t quite believe either. Things weren’t aligning properly in his mind. 

‘Panic will get us nowhere,’ said Ciel. ‘Nor will disbelief or anger. The more quickly one can move through these distracting emotions, the more quickly one can begin the real work of resolving the situation.’

‘I see,’ said Arthur.

‘You don’t agree?’

‘Of course,’ said Arthur, ‘of course-- this-- makes perfect sense. I’m yet to hear you say a foolish thing, sir. But it’s still unexpected to hear a philosophy of Stoic resignation being recommended by a child. Because you are a child,’ he added in hurried apology, ‘in the eyes of society I mean. Technically.’

‘Even a child can read Seneca and form his own judgements.’ Ciel gave a small smile.

‘Oh yes. A few might. But to actually put them into practise, too. Many adults could never manage it, and even then after much experience.’

‘Hm,’ said Ciel. ‘Perhaps I’ve had much experience already.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps I have simply worked some things out a little sooner than most.’

‘Yes,’ said Arthur slowly, but he seemed to be thinking about something else already. ‘Yes. You have faith that this case will resolve itself?’

‘Jeremy will assist things. If I have any faith at all, it’s in his process.’

‘Enough faith to remove your anxiety over these events? Is this the source of your impressive calm, sir?’ Arthur was half-joking, his eyes bright. But the line of his shoulders was still gathered tensely. He was jingling the coins in his pockets.

Not quite, Doctor.

It would be nice, actually, to be able to say this to Arthur. To show up all the flaws in the Reverend Rathbone’s story, question the almost miraculous level of this rural vicar’s obscure knowledge and the improbable intuition that apparently prompted the butler to foresee his own death and send the man an owl. Because if you know you’re about to die, would you not contact the police? Ensure your master’s safety? 

The theories posited by Jeremy weren’t based in logic at all, they were a tenuous handful of cobweb held together by the sheer power of the demon’s personality. The persuasiveness of his tongue. It was a wonder that Arthur wasn’t more suspicious.

Of course Ciel needed Arthur to believe. They needed this man to trust the vicar’s judgement. 

But it would have been satisfying to say it.

‘Another set of eyes is always useful,’ he said, ‘but this certainty is my own. The killer will be found and apprehended.’ Coolly. As if there was no doubt. Because there was no doubt. 

‘I tried to catch Jeremy in conversation before,’ Arthur said, ‘but he assured me that everything is going exactly as he predicted. He inspected Lord Siemens’ mouth, though. Odd. Does he believe it might have been poison?’

‘Well,’ began Ciel, but the man wasn’t listening properly.

‘Is it the same poison that was used on Mr Phelps? I intended to question him further but he has disappeared to the kitchens. Interviewing the servants, I suppose--’ 

Time to change the subject. Distract and deflect. Ciel could ask the man to sit down and maybe unpack the chess-set. Or simply talk. That would easily fill the hours until the meal-bell rang. 

Or he could try something else.

‘Sometimes a puzzle is simply incomplete,’ said Ciel, ‘and shuffling the pieces won’t achieve anything new. You should be trying to rest before dinner.’ 

Arthur blinked. ‘Should I?’

‘Well.’ Ciel judged the pause carefully. ‘I don’t think you slept particularly well last night.’

‘Oh,’ said Arthur. ‘ _Oh_.’ And suddenly he was blushing fiercely, his neck rosy above his crumpled collar. He probably couldn’t imagine why anyone would willingly touch upon something awkward. He hadn’t been expecting Ciel to mention this, clearly, and that was why it was a solid strategy. 

And this, hah, this was precisely why Sebastian did it _all the time._

Awkwardness, thought Ciel, is only what happens when you’re unprepared and don’t know what to say.

And he knew exactly what to say. ‘If this case isn’t resolved by this evening--’ Deliberately. ‘I suppose you’re going to be stuck with me in your room again.’

Arthur smiled slowly. ‘It wouldn’t be so bad.’ And then as he recalled who he was talking to-- ‘I mean it would be wonderful, of course, my lord. An honour.’ And he bit his lip. ‘Ah-- if it suits you. Sir.’

‘I’ll be in handcuffs. I don’t think I have much choice in the matter.’

Arthur was right, though. It wouldn't be so bad. Ciel didn’t object. To the man’s presence, to his awkward humility or his shambling unconscious humour. It wasn’t an irritant. 

Quite the contrary, and the understanding curled with a dizzy sort of clarity in Ciel’s head. Warmed his body all the way to the fingertips. He took a moment to breathe in, feeling it. 

‘It was because they thought I should,’ said Arthur unhappily. ‘Be set to guard you, I mean. There’s not much I can do about the chains. Lord Grey seemed to think it was necessary. But if you object I can ask them all--’

‘It’s fine,’ Ciel said. He knew all this already. ‘It’s simply an unusual occurrence for me to share my sleeping arrangements with somebody else.’

Should he be concerned by how easily he had said that? 

It was the same as last night, when he’d told the man about his childish weakness over thunderstorms. His fear, his midnight creeping into his parents’ bed. And now he had to pause, to consider how much of the truth he should allow to drip through into his words.

‘Yes,’ Arthur was saying seriously. ‘Your family--’ But he stopped. Perhaps he knew that was forbidden territory. ‘You do live alone,’ he began again. ‘It must be a quiet existence here. I think I can imagine, sir.’

Something in Ciel’s chest kicked rebelliously at the words. No. No. It would take the man more than a night here to understand its inhabitants.

Arthur meant it very earnestly, though. He was trying to understand. There was a gentle wondering note in his voice, the hesitance of a man dropped into Wonderland, where all the rules are upside-down. 

‘It’s quiet,’ Ciel said. ‘I like the silence. I am quite happy to be alone.’

‘I see,’ said Arthur. Frowning now. ‘I am disturbing you, I ought to go and see if--’

‘Don’t,’ said Ciel. ‘I wasn’t talking about you. I don’t care if you’re here.’ 

The man paused. Not reassured. 

And Ciel wondered too what it was that he was trying to explain. 

‘If you’re here,’ he said, ‘it’s almost as easy as being alone.’ 

‘Oh.’

‘I would prefer that they select you to guard me. More than any of the others.’

Arthur was staring fixedly out the window, one hand in his pocket and the other fidgeting at his jacket button. He was blushing already. 

What else would make him blush?

Anything. Everything. All the things that made Ciel squirm under Sebastian’s hands-- oh, they’d work all too well on Arthur.

Ciel bit the inside of his cheek. He could imagine precisely how it would be. The man’s trouser buttons, and the jumpy twitch of his fingers when Ciel reached inside and squeezed him. His wide waiting eyes. 

Arthur wouldn’t be able to watch steadily. He’d make the same small choking noise Ciel did when Sebastian mouthed him, swirling his tongue right over the crown of his cock, oh hell--

Ciel held the thought away from him, observing it with some detachment. He didn’t want to touch anyone’s body like that. But it might nearly be worth it to see Arthur’s brown eyes sink closed. 

How would it taste?

Ciel closed his lips tightly. His body buzzed like the first ache after numbness, before pins and needles, hot and starting to throb.

And he couldn’t tell what had stirred it. Which of his thoughts. 

‘Well,’ Arthur said, ‘thank you. I didn’t-- ah. I should be--’ And he pulled his hand from his pockets. He was going to leave.

Ciel wasn’t ready for the man to walk out of the room.

‘Wait.’ He held Arthur’s gaze.

He’d seen other children do this. When they shook their father’s hand or bowed to their grandmother and turned up their cheek for a kiss. He’d stood like this in the foyer with his aunts, once. With his parents.

Hands folded. Waiting.

He was too old to ask for this. Thirteen, almost an adult. Only small children presented themselves to be petted in such a way. But he knew Arthur wouldn’t refuse.

‘You may kiss me.’

Arthur stared. Startled as a deer, and then his brows drew together. He shifted on his feet, but he stayed. He was thinking. 

The man stepped forward, his face heated fiercely.

Ciel closed his eyes. Would that make it easier for him? For both of them?

Arthur’s hand rested on his shoulder. Squeezing gently. And the man bent down, and his lips pressed warm on Ciel’s cheek, and a low sigh with it. 

The warm human scent of him, soap and camphor.

Ciel waited. Half-opened his eyes. And Arthur was still leaning over him. His hand stayed firmly on Ciel’s shoulder, the thumb rubbing a circle against the jacket.

Ciel held his breath.

If the man kissed his mouth he wouldn’t stop him.

Maybe the thought showed too clearly on his face. 

Or maybe Arthur was thinking something too, because he pulled his hand away and straightened up and dropped a clumsy bow and was heading for the door. In a hurry.

The library door clicked shut and Ciel collapsed into his chair. Crossed his legs. Re-crossed them, restless, and _damn_ bloody Arthur and his indecisiveness. Or had the man made his choice after all?

It wasn’t for lack of wanting. 

Ciel closed his eyes and dropped his chin onto his fists. His stomach was still tight with lingering arousal, but he ignored it. He let it settle into the back of his thoughts.

Arthur was making a choice. Some sort of moral decision. How very like him. How very disappointing; but he’d expected as much. The man had to do it, didn’t he? If he’d done anything else, he wouldn’t be the man Ciel had hoped.

The things Ciel did with Sebastian, the way they were together-- nobody else would understand it. And those things would mean something else to Arthur. Touch, pleasure. Power. He’d think it all meant something else completely, think it _had_ some meaning beyond a game. A struggle of wills. 

That’s what it was with Sebastian. Wasn’t it? They needed no gentleness. They could move viciously in the darkness, teeth and cries and bitter pleasure as he arched against his demon’s malice.

There was no comfort to be found. There would be no peace for himself. 

And he had none for anyone else. In giving himself he could give only corruption. 

Ciel settled his head back into the angle of his wing-backed chair, and there was a certain hollowness in his thoughts. Sudden, unspannable. Immense. 

This was a house of dead things. Arthur didn’t belong in this place.

****************

*****************

He went down at dinner time, just before the bell rang; four minutes early, but he didn’t have much hope that his guests would be on time. They’d still be talking in the conservatory or fixing their hair in front of the mirrors upstairs. Idiots; as though anybody cared how they looked.

He heard a step behind him, too light and quick, and stopped. ‘Ah. Jeremy--’

‘My lord Earl.’ The man's eyes narrowed into a cattish smile. ‘May I walk down with you?’

Ciel snorted. Continued toward the stairs. And the man fell into step beside him, keeping pace, long-legged and silent.

Ciel wanted to ask things. Things, things, but there wasn’t time between here and the dining room door and he didn’t dare start if he couldn’t finish.

‘How are things in the kitchen?’ he asked instead.

‘Disastrous. As you might expect.’

‘Have you dealt with it?’

‘I have. As you might expect.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel, ‘ _completely_ predictable bloody creature you are.’

Jeremy waved his hand modestly as they passed into the bright warm dining room. ‘I try, sir.’

And then they were back in the eye of the world, and the vicar resumed his act, and Ciel took his seat in silence at the head of the table.

Everyone chattered over their dinner. Still low and tense but there was an air of determination now. The Reverend Rathbone’s arrival had changed the atmosphere somehow, crystallised something in the charged air, and the guests were focused.

But Ciel wasn’t listening. He was watching the man seated at the other end of his dining table. Watching the quick flutter of the vicar’s gloved fingers, the glint of the knife and fork as he ate his meal. 

Human food. And Ciel knew quite well that the demon had no taste for it. 

Did consuming it annoy Sebastian? Bore him? Would he feel even a pang of discomfort? Ciel hadn’t seen _that_ since the red-haired reaper’s blade had ruined Sebastian’s entire uniform and put him out of action for almost two hours.

Ah, if he could see the beast in pain just once more--

‘Will you lend me your assistance, Earl?’

Ciel looked up, his fork poised. Jeremy was dabbing the napkin delicately at his lips. Laying it back across his lap. Waiting for an answer, the whole table was.

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. He’d missed most of the conversation. He couldn’t exactly say anything else. ‘What should I do?’

And the vicar’s smile stretched unpleasantly. Far too many teeth. ‘Take off your clothes.’

****************

There would be a reason for this demand, of course. 

Ciel was almost certain.

He was undressing in his chambers, in the dressing room, behind the folding French screen which he never used, with the door half-open and the murmur of voices from the bedroom beyond it.

He’d got his cravat off. And his jacket off, fingers still too slow on the buttons, and was wriggling out of his waistcoat. The air was cool in here, the fire hadn’t been lit this morning, but his chest felt hot and clammy.

Of course Sebastian hadn’t told him a thing about this plan.

‘I’m afraid our steps must remain secret,’ the vicar had said after dinner, with a nasty touch of insincere regret. ‘It shall all be revealed to you _very_ soon, sir.’

Ciel had his own suspicions. Phelps had puncture wounds in his neck and had died of poison; that sounded like a snake bite. Not a British snake. Not a foolproof plan either; surely Grey would never rely on such an outlandish rigmarole when he could simply stab his intended victim through the chest.

Or bash them over the head with a poker, in Sebastian’s case.

But why the blasted demon had to be so secretive--

Ciel knew why. Sebastian must be enjoying this game too much, having the whole picture clear to him and his master left in the dark. At his mercy.

‘Do you require assistance, sir?’ came the voice from the other side of the screen. Not a butler’s voice; too slow, too impudently questioning. 

But Ciel knew it as well as his own breath.

‘No.’

‘Because I’m sure that Mr. Arthur would be delighted to oblige, if I were to--’

‘No.’ Sharply this time. 

There was something Sebastian wanted to say after all. But this was not the time or place. Ciel glared down at his garter-buckle. It was small and sharp and slippery. How the devil did Sebastian manage this so simply? And even Tanaka. Wearing _gloves._

A shadow fell across the chair beside him and he frowned. ‘Oi.’

‘How are you managing?’

‘Nearly done.’ Through his teeth. Stripping off his stockings, and not looking up at the ridiculous creature waiting for him. 

‘Everything off, please,’ said Jeremy. 

‘I bloody am,’ Ciel muttered. He got the buttons of his shorts open and shuffled them off too, and stood shivering in just his shirt. ‘I can only assume there’s a very good reason for me to be wearing _that_.’ He pointed at the coat flung over the chair beside him, the butler’s heavy black trench coat. 

‘An excellent reason,’ said Jeremy. His smile was a vicious slash. ‘When you’re ready, sir.’

He disappeared behind the screen again and Ciel heard his voice from the outer room, ordering everyone down the hallway to Mr Woodley’s bedroom. 

Ciel followed a few minutes later, wrapped in the trench coat. Holding up the hem of the stupid thing like a ballgown as he walked down the hallway.

‘Oh dear,’ said Jeremy’s smooth voice, back at his side. ‘It truly does cover every inch of you.’

‘Shut up,’ Ciel said, but the vicar was stooping already and lifting him. so lightly, damn him, and Ciel bit his lip. His spine seemed to stiffen hotly.

It felt like an untold age since he’d been carried like this, high against his servant’s chest. Too long since he’d felt the beast’s hot body.

‘I could have walked.’

‘You will leave footprints.’

‘I had a bath,’ Ciel said stiffly. ‘I’m clean.’

‘I can still smell you,’ the demon said. Low, amused. ‘Your skin. Your heat.’ He pushed his dark head into the crook of Ciel’s neck.

‘Get off.’ Ciel’s cheeks were burning and he tried to shrug the creature away. ‘Somebody will see.’

‘Ah, so once we are alone again--’

‘Scent,’ Ciel said quickly. ‘The murderer tracks his victims by scent, doesn’t he?’ 

The vicar smiled. ‘You are much too quick-minded, sir,’ he said, and pushed open the waiting door.

The rest of the guests were gathered here with the servants in Mr Woodley’s bedroom, and they all seemed to be in various stages of anxiety or anticipation. Too concerned with themselves to notice that their host was flushed when he entered in the the vicar's arms, at least. Woodley himself was sullen. Grimsby and Arthur were reading through the Doctor’s notebook. Finny hefted his garden rake like a medieval weapon, and Bard probably had half his armoury waiting in the next room. Mey-rin was comforting Miss Irene.

It was pouring rain again outside and their hushed voices were almost lost in the torrential sound. 

All gathered except for Ran-mao, and Ciel frowned. ‘Where is your bodyguard, Lau? We must all be present.’

‘She is accounted for,’ said Jeremy, setting Ciel down on the centre of the bed.

‘Indeed,’ Lau said, ‘and doesn’t she look pretty? Almost as pretty as you, Earl.’

Ciel wanted to say something clever and disparaging but Ran-mao was leaning around the doorway and his mouth fell open.

She was buttoned into his own black woollen coat, high over her thighs and belted at her waist and wrapped low over the squish of her tits and Ciel was most definitely not the only one staring.

The only one who’d figured it out, though. 

Scent. Bait. Ambush, and it wasn’t a terrible plan, as plans go.

Although he would have come up with something far less theatrical.

He shivered inside Sebastian’s coat. He knew his body was covered but he was uncomfortably aware of his own nakedness. The inner seams of the coat lay over his bare shoulders. The lining was soft against his thighs. It was heavy, and it smelled of sweet-salt wax and leather. Of stables. 

Jeremy bent down to arrange the coat, and Ciel tucked his chin against his knees. ‘Surely there was another way to do this.’ 

‘Yes,’ said the vicar, ‘there were several other ways.’ His voice was quick and very low at Ciel’s ear. ‘Several acceptable ideas, but none that would have left you waiting naked in a room with your guests. All night.’ He tugged the collar up higher around Ciel’s neck. ‘Satisfactory, yes?’

Ciel didn’t answer. His cheeks blazed. Of course this wasn’t satisfactory, this hellspawn thing had done it again-- somehow managing to strip him of focus and power and dignity and maroon him in the vast unknown of his own obscure scheming. 

But there could be no protest. He’d done this himself, setting up the Reverend Rathbone as somebody to be trusted and obeyed. He couldn’t protest without destroying the illusion, and Sebastian was _very_ aware. 

Ciel cleared his throat. ‘What are you going to be doing while we’re all in here?’

‘ _We_ are going to wait in your chambers for the killer,’ said Jeremy grandly. ‘Myself and Lord Grey. Tanaka. And Mr Arthur.’

Ciel looked up at him.

And Jeremy smiled back down, wide and clean and predatory. ‘I shall take very good care of him.’

‘That’s not what I was going to say,’ began Ciel in hot fury, but the man was ignoring him. Rounding up Lord Grey, who was slashing his sword impatiently at the curtains, and giving a few last orders to the servants. To Lau, waiting at the bedside, and lastly to Ciel himself.

‘Listen, sir.’ 

Ciel glared. But he listened.

‘Under no circumstances must you raise your voice. You cannot move a muscle. Be patient, and await my orders. And don’t open your eyes. If you do--’ Jeremy paused, his cool voice cutting through the thunder of rain from outside. ‘You’ll be caught by the _string of death_ in a heartbeat.’

Theatrics, the damn thing, and the guests murmured in sudden anxiety.

But at least Ciel knew now. It was certainly a snake, and there would be no danger-- a human murderer might have proven an unknown quantity and ruined their plan, but no animal could give the demon any trouble.

‘Agreed?’

‘I suppose,’ Ciel said. ‘Yes.’

Jeremy bowed. ‘Don’t you trust me?’

He saluted. And he closed the door.

Ciel sighed. 

And that was how he found himself in this preposterous situation, sitting cross-legged on Mr Woodley’s bed in the middle of the night, with the servants standing by, armed and tense, and the other guests 

He was safe. He must be, or Sebastian wouldn’t have left him here alone. The damn thing was a demon; he was capable of almost anything, probably, anything Ciel could ask of him. And he was a Phantomhive servant. He could manage this.

But that had never been the question.

‘There’s no problem, really,’ Lau was murmuring lightly. ‘The night will be over before you know it.’

Miss Irene hissed anxiously. ‘We have to be quiet. Isn’t that what he said?’

‘Only the Earl,’ said Woodley, ‘we’re allowed to talk.’

Ciel sniffed. ‘I think it would be very much better if we all remained silent.’

And they were quiet then, settling in to wait.

Ciel leaned his cheek against his knees. Closing his eyes, in the sudden aching need for this to be over. To be back in his own tidy room, in warmth and silence and everything as it used to be. Just he and the servants and his schedule. Peace.

How far back was that, though?

It all felt long ago.

Last week, and the demon’s fierce body. Had he truly submitted to that so meekly? Closing his eyes against the creature’s lust. Folding under it.

Last month, and his burning shame each time he was undressed beside his waiting bath.

Last year, and only the unsettled lurch in his stomach when the creature’s hand brushed against his skin.

He hid his hot face in his arms now, but there was nobody watching him with the lamp turned low. He listened to the shuffle of their feet on the carpet, their breathing. Finny beginning to hum something, and the thump as Bard elbowed him.

Ciel flinched as though the sound rubbed at his raw skin. 

He only wanted peace. And privacy. And his house to himself again.

And Jeremy. Sebastian. Whatever the faceless bloody creature was pretending to be--

_Don’t you trust me?_

No, thought Ciel, of course I don’t trust you. I’m watching you, always, waiting--

He rested his chin on his tucked-up knees. Give them an inch and they’ll take a mile; and Sebastian was straining at the leash. 

If the creature is quick and clever and strong enough to drag you off your feet, ah. Who is leading who? There is never trust. Little wonder that his nights were endless, sleepless. 

This was still his plan, his mission, even if he didn’t have a clue what the beast was playing at. It was he who permitted Sebastian this ridiculous idea. Indulged his fancy. 

Sebastian might wander far but it was a circuit in the end. His leash would bring him home. Even if his stupid ideas had left his master huddling naked beneath his butler’s great-coat, surrounded by idiots, awaiting the results of a murderous night, blind in the bloody dark-- it was for a reason. It was for their plan. Ciel was sure of that much. 

He might rage and doubt and scorn his servant’s pointless details, but the plan was certain.

Ciel closed his eyes. Perhaps this is what faith feels like.

Not a reassuring thought.

******************

*****************

Every mystery story has a climax. 

Ciel stood on the bathmat later the next morning, towelling himself down roughly, and he pondered these things.

The climax is followed by the _denouement_ , the unravelling of the plot as everything is made clear to the reader. Or to the actors, in this case, the participants in this little farce. And that’s where the story ends. It exists to carry the narrative thread. Writers never mention what happens afterwards.

Downstairs, the servants would be back at work. Sprinkling salt over the wine stains on the carpet. The blood stains on the sheets. This is the aftermath. 

Ciel paused in drying his hair. The golden light splashed over the ground at his feet, and he wriggled his bare toes in it. Real daylight, a clear pale dawn, and the hush of tentative birdsong outside the window. The storm had passed.

And once again he had to wonder. How powerful was his demon, exactly?

He dressed himself slowly in his ruined bedroom, behind the screen in the dressing room. Shorts, shirt.

He sat on the brocade-covered chaise longue while Tanaka knelt to put on his stockings and shoes.

‘The guests have been served breakfast in their bedrooms, sir,’ said the old man courteously. ‘The coaches are being prepared for their departure within the hour.’

Ciel turned his eyes away from the window, and back to the Steward. The old man’s bent grey head. The silver glint of the Head Butler’s badge in his lapel.

‘And Scotland Yard?’

‘The detectives are removing Mr Woodley from the cellar and into their custody as we speak.’

‘Excellent.’ Ciel fell quiet again.

And Tanaka hesitated over the buckles of Ciel’s shoes. ‘I have given the servants a day’s leave, sir.’

Ciel looked down at him. ‘What? Why?’

The old man flicked him a glance with shrewd pale eyes. ‘They lost a member of their staff, young master. After all, their head butler was murdered yesterday, and I believe they were quite fond of him. Given their service over the last few days, I assumed that they had earned a small holiday.’

‘Hmph,’ said Ciel. ‘Fine. You may join them so long as everyone is back by dinner time.’ 

This was the one thing he hadn’t considered in all this-- the fact that the staff would react badly to Sebastian’s demise. Whatever Tanaka might suspect about the butler’s nature, he kept it to himself. But the others. Ugh.

Sometimes the denouement leaves a mess of loose threads in its wake. There would be time to consider this. 

But time was slipping through his hands this morning. 

It is elastic, but quite inexorable, he thought, as he stood at the top of the front steps. After his tea, his buttered scones, and he was watching the guests crowding on the gravel drive around the waiting coaches. Watching Jeremy bowing, smiling. The sun catching on their hair, glittering in Miss Irene’s silk bows, gleaming over the buttons on the heavy coats of the Scotland Yard officers.

Time moves strangely. 

You can draw it out, and out, and out-- to the point where every breath is pain-- and then when the tension breaks all things collapse in a sort of tumble, catching up again, and details are lost. Relief blurs reality. As heavy, as stupid as the sleep after satiation, the mindless aftermath of orgasm.

Time is like sex.

But isn’t everything?

No, Ciel concluded, and he folded his hands over the head of his cane; no, it is not. But that seemed like the type of thought that the demon would appreciate.

The demon was ignoring him at the moment, though, herding everyone into their coaches and issuing brisk orders to the drivers. Playing the role of host better than the host himself, and Ciel let him do it. The other servants had all gone into town, and the mansion was empty. The show was over. He had no need to ever see these people again-- apart from Mr Lau, who stuck to one’s shoes like Thames mud.

The others had played their role. They were gone from his world already. Lord Grey would return to Her Majesty’s side, having carried out his murderous plans and avoided the blame for it. 

And the Doctor had performed the most admirably of all. Last night, in the rushed hours of early dawn when the house had been dragged into lights and shrieks, when Jeremy had returned to the bedroom in triumph with _the second murderer_ \-- Arthur had played his role perfectly.

‘A snake?’ It hadn’t been difficult for Ciel to show surprise-- he’d already deduced the cause of Phelps’s death but he’d hardly expected the vicar to march back in holding a bloody mamba. 

And they’d pinned it all on Woodley. Perfectly, inevitably. Lau had assisted, and Jeremy had given them all a speech on poison and falsified deaths and tetrodotoxin, and Lord Grey hadn’t spoken a word of protest against their wild inventions.

‘Tetrodotoxin,’ Miss Irene had said, ‘oh, is _that_ how Romeo and Juliet managed things in the play?’

But Arthur’s shock had been over something else, as they’d all put the story together. Voices rising as Woodley protested and Grimsby shouted him down, as they traced the poison back to a missing glass ampoule and dragged the dusty coal-piled hearth for it. Pieced together the fragments. And Woodley had stared his own demise in the face. Quite shocked. Of course this crime wasn’t his.

But the others believed it. Lord Grey did not denounce it, and Arthur believed it, and that was all that mattered. 

Arthur had stood shaking his head, his eyes wide and glazed as he stared at Woodley. ‘To want to trap a child. Why on earth would you do that?’ 

Touching, quite honestly. And exactly what Ciel had wanted him for. But almost grating, too. Did Arthur still think him so innocent?

Woodley wasn’t a fool, though. He knew he was being set up. Used as a pawn in somebody else’s invisible game. He’d tried to tell them.

‘This _child_ \--’ A sneer, enraged. ‘The Queen’s Watchdog--’

And Grey had made sure the man got no further with that. He’d dragged him down to the cellar in chains, with particular relish. 

And Jeremy had found an explanation for every lingering doubt the guests had raised. The red liquid from Miss Irene’s bedroom? Tincture of perilla, and Jeremy had poured it for them all, a satisfying splash of red in each crystal glass.

But this was not the Reverend Rathbone’s hour of victory. Not entirely.

Ciel had made sure of it. ‘Well, if the Doctor would like to make a toast--’

Arthur’s sudden horror was almost amusing. ‘Me?’ 

‘Of course.’ Ciel had smiled at him. ‘You were an indispensable help to us.’

The man had been colouring deeply when he raised his glass. ‘Well. Well, then--’ 

Ciel had waited, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor. Waiting for the vicar’s attention. And Sebastian finally turned it upon him, bowing as he took Ciel’s empty glass.

‘Romeo and Juliet,’ Ciel said flatly.

‘Indeed, sir.’ 

‘How _fasc_ _inating_.’ Lau sat himself down on the sofa. ‘Even the poison has a certain magic about it. Perhaps this wasn’t a mystery story at all. Perhaps it’s a love story.’ He was watching Grimsby, who stood with his arm wrapped around Irene’s waist, but Ciel didn’t like the smirk that lifted the man’s mouth. 

‘Curious,’ said Jeremy. ‘You call _Romeo and Juliet_ a romance, then.’

‘Is it not?’ Lau closed his eyes like a cat settling in the sun. ‘Even I have heard of that one. What do you think, Doctor? The Bard’s most famous tale of love.’

Arthur rubbed the tip of his nose. ‘Romance? Was it? The two people in question had barely met.’ He shrugged. ‘It was dramatic, certainly, but not much of a love story.’

Ciel frowned. ‘Is that your professional critique?’

Arthur smiled slowly. ‘No, your lordship. I’m not qualified to critique the man’s writing as a writer myself. But as a reader, maybe. It’s not a love story, not as I see it. Two people met, and it was forbidden, and like anybody else they liked the idea of that.’ 

‘And?’ Ciel was waiting.

‘And it all went badly wrong, due to the idealism of the one, and the stupidity of the other.’

‘ _And_ that Friar Lawrence,’ said Lau. ‘He had one job to do and couldn’t even manage _that_.’ He sighed, as though the distress was still affecting him quite personally. ‘I have no time at all for religious types, I’m afraid.’ And he opened his eyes to wink at Sebastian.

Triumph. The clocks striking three in the morning, and the wind lashing around the sharp angles of mansion rooftops, and the liquorice clarity of the red perilla sweet on Ciel’s tongue. Triumph. Solution, dissolution. 

Ciel sighed and straightened his back, blinking in the morning glare on his front steps. No sleep at all since that unexpected ending this morning, and now his limbs were heavy with a deceptive serenity. His eyes felt gritty but he only pressed his gloved knuckles to them. Blinked again.

And then the vicar was glancing back at him from over at Arthur’s coach, a quick carnivorous smile, and Ciel’s stomach burned. 

A feeling. A sense. Unmistakeable. It couldn’t be defined, and that was precisely what made it _Sebastian._ Not the name that was his mask, but the creature that was his nature.

Ciel turned his eyes away. Miss Irene was stepping up into her coach with Grimsby. Woodley was already locked into the police cart; Lord Grey was performing an elaborate bow and stepping up beside the drivers as escort. The slimy bastard, smooth as if he’d never stabbed the Phantomhive butler. He thought his sins would never be discovered. Perhaps they wouldn’t.

The guests had a certain buoyancy about them in departure. So happy for it to be over. So pleased to be safe, going home, smiling up at the clear sky and laughing too loudly over nothing. There were bodies in the cellar, but _they_ had not died. Some days it is enough to be alive.

The simplicity, the breath-taking selfishness of the mortal spirit. 

And Arthur was settled in his coach already, leaning his elbow on the open sill. Staring straight ahead of him.

Ciel hadn’t taken him aside for their farewell: he’d shaken his hand squarely in the front foyer. His thanks, and his best wishes, and that was all that an Earl owes an impoverished Scottish doctor. 

The man had made his choice. Ciel had no intention of making either of them regret it.

He tapped his cane against his boot-toe as the coaches rolled away on the gravel drive. The early breeze was stirring the spring flowers, and it _felt_ like spring. Sharp air, clean scent. The clear after rain.

The Reverend Rathbone’s slow steps up towards him, pausing.

Ciel turned to look up at the creature. 

‘Well,’ Jeremy said, and spread his gloved hands. Taking in everything, that slow gesture, the house and the disguise and the whole day. The night. 

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. ‘It went to plan.’ He turned back towards the doorway.

The demon must have followed. Ciel heard the thump of the front door. And the echo of that cool voice, rising in the foyer behind him.

‘One would think you were almost disappointed, my lord.’ 

Disappointed. No. But when you’ve already seen exactly how things will end, when you’ve plotted the story long past the last page and are tired of it before anybody else has begun it-- sometimes the feeling sits in your bones, and it feels like death.

An undying creature could never understand this.

‘Why would I be?’ Ciel stopped and turned. ‘This is what we discussed. This is our preferred outcome.’

But Jeremy’s eyes weren’t fixed on him any more. The beast stood still, his head poised like a listening dog, and now Ciel could hear it too, beyond the door, the courtyard-- one of the coaches was pulling up on the gravel again.

Somebody was returning to the house.

Somebody had figured something out.

The door flung open. 

Arthur stood framed in the daylight, and his face was as white as his starched collar.

‘Ah, Mr Arthur. You do seem upset. Did you forget something?’ Jeremy sounded composed. 

But Ciel didn’t dare speak. 

‘I came back to confirm the truth,’ said Arthur. He wasn’t going to move. He was going to insist; furiously stubborn. Anxious but quite determined. ‘The truth about _you_ , Reverend-- No.’ Shortly. ‘ _Sebastian_.’

Ciel gripped his cane tightly. It wasn’t too late. The demon could talk his way out of it still, and Arthur could walk away from this. Untouched by truth. 

But Jeremy was laughing. A long sighing sound. ‘Excellent,’ he said. ‘It seems we underestimated you.’

He was stripping off the stage mask, and now there was no point wondering why the demon would need to show himself. The cursed thing could never do things simply, cleanly, he always wanted to make a fuss. He should never have revealed their secret.

But Ciel didn’t stop him. Something twined behind his ribs, and he knew that he wanted to see Arthur’s reaction. 

And he saw it. Arthur’s pallor, his wide blank eyes. Fear and horror and the small spark of understanding already quailing under the aftershock of its implications.

‘No,’ said Arthur. A quiver. ‘No. _How_ can this be--’

‘Oh,’ said Sebastian. ‘Isn’t this why you came back?’ He looked almost crestfallen. At any other moment Ciel might have been amused by it but the bitterness in his throat was too sharp. 

Didn’t the demon realise? There is a difference between suspecting a thing, questioning and doubting and wrestling ideas into place-- and knowing it. Seeing it in front of you. Truth strikes deep and merciless, a visceral blow.

‘You could have returned to your world, Mr Arthur,’ Sebastian was saying. ‘Your whole life awaits. So why did you come back?’ He tilted his head. ‘ _Trembling._ In my master’s house.’

Arthur’s face hardened into something else. An odd defiance. ‘I had a feeling,’ he said. ‘And I knew that if it wasn’t just a feeling, I’d have to go after the Yard’s carriage.’ His voice was unsteady but he didn’t look frightened any more. Only furious. ‘If an innocent man was charged--’

And Ciel laughed.

For Arthur’s naivete, for that charming stupidity, and the strange exhausted ache in his own chest. The man hadn’t come back because he needed to know he was right. He’d come back because he wanted to be sure he’d _done the right thing._

‘You have a dramatic sense of justice, Doctor.’ Ciel shook his head. ‘But then again, you did mention in your work that you like the Knights of the Middle Ages.’

He should have guessed. The man fancied himself some kind of chivalrous soldier, bright-eyed in the misty youth of the world. And if one stumbles into a pit of snakes, into the foul treachery of a cursed house, a helpless soul, one must be honourable. One must pass every test.

Ciel leaned back against the balustrade. ‘Didn’t you realise that once you knew the truth you could never return home?’

Sebastian was watching them both with a certain curiosity. 

And Arthur’s determination sharpened back into fear. ‘What--?’

Ciel laughed. And sighed. ‘It was a joke.’ He turned away, back up the stairs. ‘You were right though, about Woodley’s innocence. In this case, anyway.’

Arthur’s voice, aggrieved behind him. ‘What do you mean?’

And Ciel kept walking. ‘I’m not going to stand here and discuss this. We may as well take our tea now.’ And the name sat perfectly in his mouth. ‘Sebastian--’

‘Yes, my lord.’ And Ciel heard the butler turn back to Arthur. ‘Follow me, Doctor. You wish to know the truth, don’t you?’ That flavour of subtle contempt. ‘Don’t be frightened. We aren’t going to eat you.’

Ciel already knew the man would follow them. Arthur had no choice in the matter. His curiosity would get the better of him. And he would drag himself unwilling to the very edge of hell. 

Or out past the billiard room to the conservatory, in this case, to the waving palms and the mossy sandstone floor and the glitter of glass overhead. A summer jewel box in the cool spring landscape.

Sebastian had set up a table and two chairs and was pouring tea, but Arthur didn’t appear to appreciate the finer details of the iced petit fours or the ultramarine garlands on the tea cups. He sat in silence, his face gathered.

Was he sulking? Or did he simply fear for his life?

Ciel finished one cup of tea. And began another, quite happy to sit in silence also, in the quiet clockwork of the way things should be; the steaming tea-pot in Sebastian’s gloved fingers, the delicate powdering of sugar on the almond biscuits. The butler’s quiet manner, his dark-lashes lowered. But Sebastian glanced up at Ciel, twice, with tense amusement.

Still Arthur didn’t move his hands from his lap.

And Ciel sighed. ‘We haven’t poisoned it. Please help yourself.’

Silence.

‘So. How did you know he was alive, Doctor?’

And now Arthur shifted in his seat. ‘I didn’t know. It wasn’t like I had a clear idea that he was alive. It was just a feeling, that something was wrong.’ He was hesitating. He didn’t look up at the butler beside them. ‘I don’t know how to describe it. He was just… too perfect.’

Ciel sat back in his seat. A fair assessment, actually. And the rest of Arthur’s reasoning didn’t matter at all, because he hadn’t arrived at this conclusion with logic. The rest was simply justification. A rational mind’s scrambling to understand something too large, too unthinkable. Their logic had been impeccable. But they’d been undone by something else completely.

‘The vicar Jeremy’s alibi was too convenient. I couldn’t find any reason to doubt him. But then his parting words--’ Arthur was frowning at the memory. ‘ _Thank you for taking care of the young master._ The moment I heard that--’

Ciel glanced over at Sebastian. The butler was smiling quietly down at Arthur with a small strange sort of satisfaction. Had he truly said that? Had he _wanted_ this to fall apart?

Arthur was waiting, hands clasped on the table. 

And Ciel’s mind back-stepped to catch up with the man’s last words. ‘The possibility of something unreal?’

Arthur leaned forward earnestly. ‘The possibility that the butler had never died.’

‘To think you returned over this alone. A few words.’ Sebastian’s sharp eyes were fixed on Arthur. ‘You really are everything one would expect from somebody who has earned the young master’s praise.’

‘Stop that,’ Ciel muttered. He didn’t like the glance Sebastian threw him in return. The demon had set a test of his own. How much of it had been to challenge this clever young doctor? And how much of it had been for his master?

‘At the time of Lord Siemens’ death--’ Arthur’s words were a hurried stumble. ‘You were only watching everyone’s movements. And when the earl was suspected you didn’t say a single word is his defence. For a butler to not even attempt to protect his master--’

Ciel huffed. So even Arthur had noticed that. He arched his brows at Sebastian. ‘You probably thought it served me right, didn’t you?’

And the butler gave him the smallest of bows. ‘I was simply a little surprise that you predicted something would happen and then took yourself off to _bed_ , and left me to clean up all the mess.’

That was a butler’s duty. That had never bothered Sebastian before. And perhaps if it had been the bed of anyone else but Arthur--

Ciel drained his tea-cup.

But the Doctor’s shock was deepening. ‘You mean you knew that one of the guests--’

‘We knew that somebody at the dinner party intended to torment the young master,’ said Sebastian, ‘yes.’ And as he poured Ciel another cup of tea, and moved around the table to drop another lemon-flavoured madeleine onto his master’s plate, he told Arthur the entire story.

Arthur listened, his mouth thin and pale, occasionally interrupting to demand an explanation or to direct the tale towards the questions that had bothered him, and Ciel cut in with his own replies. But his skin prickled with an odd antagonism.

Arthur had wanted to rescue him. Was that it? From the claws of fate, of treachery. Unchain the child, and carry him down from the tower of his captivity.

He could never have known Ciel had fastened the chain himself.

They worked through the whole knotty story, the predicted deaths and the unexpected revelations. The quick decisions and the demon’s breath-taking boldness. And some of it was new to Ciel, too.

‘When we inspected the corpses,’ Arthur was saying, ‘the _butler_ \-- you mean that body was actually Phelps’s?’

‘Yes.’ Sebastian shrugged. ‘Thanks to the young master’s bad acting and your personality, I was able to get by.’

Ciel didn’t look up at him. 

‘And I think you know the rest, Doctor,’ Sebastian said. _Purred_ , too smoothly. He was showing off to both of them now.

‘Woodley said-- He knew what you were.’ Arthur was pale as he faced Ciel. But there was a harsh note in his steady voice. ‘Just exactly what are you?’ 

‘I track down those who break the commandments of Britain's underground society, and I punish them.’ Ciel watched Arthur levelly. ‘I am the Queen’s Watchdog.’

This was the true denouement. Watching Arthur understand that the story had been written before he even entered it. Watching him realise that he had played his part, a puppet on the silver string of the butler’s words, Ciel’s ideas.

‘This was simply a game,’ Ciel continued. ‘Her Majesty wished to confirm if I was fit for my post.’

‘No,’ said Arthur. ‘That can’t be right--’ But his face was tense. Horrified. He already believed. It all made far too much sense to him, and he was there already. One step ahead. ‘If this is the case, that means-- the butler--’

‘ “There is nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact,” wasn’t it, Doctor?’ Ciel smiled. ‘It has been in front of you all along.’

And Ciel could see the man’s thoughts as clear as if they moved in Arthur’s brown eyes-- he and his servant in this terrible house. Peculiar and sinister, the pair of them, child and demon. 

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian softly. He bent over Arthur’s chair. And Ciel didn't stop him. ‘The truth that I am not human.’

Ciel's hands curled tight and cold in his lap. He wanted to see this. Arthur had earned this revelation. 

The steam from their tea-cups was twisting strangely, shimmering as though it was a heatwave on a summer road. The air was too full of nothingness.

Arthur tried to stand up. He shuffled back in his seat. Sprawled off onto the ground, and Ciel wondered if the man was going to be sick. 

Truth is more terrible than unmixed poison. Once it stings in your blood you will never be free of it. And Arthur would never forget the surge of sticky black that seeped from the butler’s silhouette, writhing like living shadow with a hunger of its own. Arthur would not forget.

Ciel knew this much. There are some things that crawl forever in your dreams.

The man was running for the door. He still didn’t understand, did he? That there’s never an escape, only a reprieve. And he collided with Sebastian’s buttoned waistcoat, and Ciel wished he could see his expression as the demon leaned in, too close, his gloved hands curling around Arthur’s neck. 

‘One wonders what would happen were you to reveal what you’ve seen here.’ Sebastian's voice was polite but the low resonance turned over with a shudder in Ciel’s bones.

‘I’ll never say!’ The man was pleading. Babbling. ‘I’ll never say a word, _please_ \--’

A thickening cloud curved like claws around Arthur’s shaken figure, like the arc of a wave before it breaks, and now the butler was not a butler any more. He was liquid shadow dripping from the glass ceiling. A veil of ink, a vast tremble of tendrils, a pulsing noise that seemed to fill the corners of the great glass room.

And Arthur was running again.

He might have been screaming. Ciel couldn’t hear above the sudden throbbing in his blood. 

And he was seized by the notion that for one keen brief moment that he’d seen something else of Sebastian. Not the demon’s body but the form of his mind, creeping shadow, relentless probing curiosity. Infinitely sensitive, touching everything at once. 

The windows were shaking. The sound seemed to hang in the air itself, the stone beneath them. The foundations of the house. The roots of the earth.

Sibilant. Aching. Monstrous.

The door slammed.

The palm branches swayed as though touched by a passing breeze, but the conservatory was empty. Ciel was the only living thing in the house. There was only the curl of steam from his cup of tea. The ringing in his ears.

The click of his butler's heels beside him.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we are!  
> Two chapters left to go, and now that Ciel's pesky guests have dispersed and he has time to process things, they will be something of a return to the earlier style of the story-- MUCH overthinking. More of Sebastian's POV. And also smut. Heheh...
> 
> I'm currently moderating all comments due to some recent weirdness in the inbox, but as always-- I appreciate the heck out of EVERY view and kudos and reader and comment. I truly couldn't have found the energy to continue this story so consistently if it wasn't for the lovely support-- so thank you. All of you. 
> 
> Edit: The next update will be January 20. I'm finishing up the whole final section simultaneously, in the same way I wrote Valentine's Eve, so progress on the next chapter has been slower-- but I am so, so excited about it. See you soon...


	19. trans {across}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's long. If I were better organised, I'd have plotted this thing with chapters of equal length but anyway.

‘Really,’ Ciel said slowly, reaching for his tea-cup, and he could only hope that his voice sounded steady. ‘Why did you have to show yourself like that?’

The butler’s heels stopped. Ciel didn’t turn his head.

‘Mr Arthur is a writer, sir,’ said Sebastian’s crisp voice behind him. ‘He will take an interesting experience and be compelled to write something about it.’ The butler was moving, refilling his master’s cup, a glint of the tea-pot at the edge of Ciel’s vision. ‘Writers... are that type of creature.’

‘Hm.’ Now Ciel glanced over. And he watched as his servant began to pack Arthur’s tea things away onto the trolley. Leisurely, those long gloved fingers, moving the sugar bowl and the milk jug and the spoons, arranging every detail in this quiet little world: no trace left of the demonic shadow that had unfurled like a summer storm beneath its master's roof. Only the echo of its presence still burned Ciel’s skin. Dampening beneath his tight collar.

‘You liked Arthur’s story, young master,’ said Sebastian. ‘Did you not? You read that magazine several times.’

‘It was alright,’ Ciel said. ‘To pass the time.’

‘Ah.’ A supercilious arch of the demon’s brows. ‘Well, then. Mr Arthur’s next piece should be something worth reading, I suspect.’

Ciel breathed out slowly, re-crossing his legs. 

They could talk like this for a while. He could pretend this is the thing he wanted to talk about. 

‘You expect me to believe you revealed yourself merely to trigger the flow of some writer’s inspiration.’

‘Of course, sir.’ Too brightly. 

‘And it was not even the slightest need to intimidate him. Some form of revenge.’

‘Revenge for what, young master?’ Sebastian’s brow arched, a play of innocence. ‘Arthur would have asked for proof of his theory. The quickest path to victory is to give voluntarily that which one’s enemy plans to demand. Forestall them with an unexpected concession.’

‘Unnecessary.’

‘It worked for Macchiavelli, sir. Another of your favourite writers, if I am not mistaken.’

Sebastian was never mistaken. Ciel had read _The Prince_ from cover to cover. And of course he’d used that strategy himself. Several times. Against Sebastian.

Ciel sipped. ‘You seemed to be enjoying your performance a little too much.’

Sebastian paused, and he put down the plate of cucumber sandwiches. ‘It feels good to stretch occasionally, sir.’ His eyes narrowed as he smiled. ‘I am quite mercilessly confined by my collaring.’

‘And this is how you behave when I let you off your leash?’

That didn’t seem to be the answer Sebastian was hoping for. His lips were pinched tightly. ‘You never ordered me to behave otherwise, young master.’ 

‘Is something bothering you, Sebastian?’

‘Dear me, sir. In the last two days I have been beaten, bitten, drenched, and stuck through with a blunt poker. Twice, I might add. Do you think I have any cause to complain?’

The demon’s tone was light and brisk, though. There was something distracted about his mood. He had something else on his mind, a fleeting amusement around his mouth. He was waiting. 

If he was waiting for his master to start things, he’d be disappointed.

Ciel turned back to his tea, shuffling his chair closer to the table. He bumped his knees, and gave a small experimental kick at the linen cloth; it clattered with a hollow thump. There was something under the table. The damn demon had left a kitchen crate beneath it. _Cutting corners, are we?_

Ciel didn’t want to change the subject. He didn’t want to raise any subject until he was sure of what he’d say. And it was hard to keep up; his mind dragged unpleasantly behind him, a broken wing. He was too tired for this. Too tired to understand how the demon had shaken itself out and then folded away again, neat as a lady’s fan. He’d seen it before but every time it seemed to make less sense, that boundless hungering _vivid_ darkness, all bound up in that sober dark uniform. Too much compressed into a small space. 

Like the moving books that they’d played with, years ago, paper wheels and tabs and levers-- and then the whole thing would unfold into a fluttering scene, city park or circus or castle. And tuck away again, the book closed, tidy on the nursery shelf. 

He’d taken one to pieces to look at it, finding copper wires and the _back_ of things, the way the world looks behind the scenes. His brother had been cross with him. But now when Ciel saw those books in London, bright in the windows of rival toy stores, he knew precisely how they were made. 

But there was no way of taking his demons to pieces. 

And even if he did, would he ever make sense of the mess he found? The broken lovely shards. Sebastian’s fine topaz eyes. The careful lines of his face, polished ivory. Pressed gloves. Clockwork timing. Whirring, an automaton’s heartbeat. And would the cavity of the creature’s chest be full of tangled copper wires too?

No. Ciel had seen that already, the butler’s corpse lying bloodied and too human. 

He shouldn’t be wondering these things. Remembering these things. He was too tired for this. 

‘I shall start preparations for lunch,’ the butler was saying, ‘before the staff return.’

‘Wait.’ Ciel frowned. ‘There are things you haven’t told me yet.’

Sebastian bowed. ‘That’s very likely.’ 

‘Phelps’ murder,’ Ciel said coldly. ‘You haven’t explained it yet.’

‘Ah.’ Sebastian paused. ‘As it turns out, there was an uninvited guest after all.’

‘What are you talking about?’

And then the butler was kneeling on the flagstones to drag something out from under the tea table. A kitchen crate, exactly as Ciel had suspected, but it was chained up. He could think of no reason for that. It felt like a theatre show. Distant and irrelevant. He could find no explanation for anything, at this moment, and his head ached. 

‘The killer is in here?’ He felt like a child at the pantomime. Determined to show no surprise, but cold with excitement. Irritation. ‘Open it up, then.’

‘Are you sure about that, sir?’

‘Just do it, Sebastian.’

Ciel didn’t like the slow smile that curved the demon’s mouth.

And then the demon was pulling open the cargo crate and there inside it, bound up, glaring furiously, was a man. No, a _boy_. A boy with white hair, his hands tied and mouth bound and body wrapped in snakes, and Ciel stared. Because he had been sure this was over. 

He could have sworn on his own name that he’d never have to see that face again. 

********

‘This house smells like death.’ 

Sebastian turned his head. 

‘....says Goethe.’

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian. ‘You may inform Goethe that his senses are impressively delicate. Five hours ago, there were three corpses lying in the cellar. We have had quite a busy few days.’

He paused at the foot of the staircase, tapping his foot as he waited for the boy to catch up with him.

Snake was in no hurry, though. He walked with deliberation, gazing at the paintings along the walls and the glistening Dresden vases on the side tables. The boy was a slim quaint figure in his striped costume; like a porcelain figure himself. 

His voluminous sleeve twitched, and a flash of pale green showed briefly at his wrist. Even his snakes were cautious here.

Sebastian sighed. 

On a day of revelations, this was undoubtedly the strangest. The young master had been faced with a potential murderer, and held out his hand in friendship. 

Not even metaphorically. 

And Snake had accepted it. Tentatively, because he was clever enough to question what was going on, and Sebastian wanted to ask exactly the same thing. He’d never seen his master willingly hold out his hand to anybody. Except Arthur; but no, surely that was _not_ what was happening here. 

It was supposed to be a surprise, Sebastian’s final amusement for the morning; he’d found the snake boy hiding in the house two nights ago and he’d been waiting for the opportune moment. _Here, sir. A box full of serpents and an old friend. Surprised yet?_

And his master had certainly been shocked enough. At both the moment and its implications: finding a remnant of the circus fiasco here beneath his roof; a murderous offshoot of vengeance. One bitter little fragment of his guilt. But to offer Snake his hand, his assistance-- 

The demon could only wait and watch and hold his tongue. And admit to himself with a fleeting stab that there were things about his young master that he would never comprehend.

He’d expected the boy to order Snake’s death-- _that_ would have been entertaining-- or have the murderer thrown out of the house at the very least. Maybe his master was still wearing a mask. Perhaps this is what he thought was expected of the Earl of Phantomhive. The boy had lied outright, though. In giving Snake any suggestion that Joker and the Circus crew were still alive, he had set up a new version of the story-- a house of cards to live in. 

If you wear a lie for long enough, it becomes the truth. 

Sebastian chewed on his lip.

The snake boy was waiting. His lashes were snowy-white when he blinked.

‘Come along,’ Sebastian said, and set off again up the stairs. ‘Your quarters will be up here with the others.’

Not in Bard and Finny’s room, because most humans seem to be fussy about sharing their sleeping quarters with poisonous snakes. And not in the room directly beside them, either; just down the hallway. The newcomer could stay unnoticed for a day or two. It would take some persuading before servants accepted this stranger into the household; they’d be suspicious.

Rightly. The boy had tried to kill their master.

Sebastian glanced over at Snake as he pushed open the door.

Snake was looking around his new bedroom in silence. 

Did this odd little mortal know how rare that was, the young master’s good humour? His acceptance. His-- and Sebastian was tempted to use the word-- forgiveness. 

‘I shall bring you up some food,’ Sebastian said. ‘And water. It is preferable that you stay in here until I give you leave. And if you would be so kind as to request your _friends_ to do the same--’

Silence.

‘Lord Phantomhive is busy in his study now. He is not to be disturbed during the day. If you need something, you will ask me.’

Still no reply. Perhaps Snake didn’t trust Sebastian either. But the boy was looking around at his bed, opening the drawers in the low dresser and peering out the window with the curiosity of a tent-dwelling traveller. 

‘I shall leave you to settle in,’ Sebastian said, with all the gravity he’d grant a Duke. The boy didn’t have a traveling case. Even his pockets were empty. But the Phantomhive manor must be hospitable, if nothing else.

Snake didn’t answer. 

Of course it would take time to build trust. 

But it would happen. Mortals will twist themselves through the most torturous paths of self-deception in order to believe. One has only to leave a suggestion, and they will spin an entire new truth from it. His master’s little plot with Woodley had applied this principle perfectly.

Apart from Mr Arthur’s interference; and Sebastian straightened his tie in the mirror as he left Snake’s room and closed the door firmly behind him.

Arthur had been an anomaly. _Arthur_ would take quite some explaining on the young master’s part, and the demon, not being mired in the sordid illusory falseness of human self-deception, was happy to admit that he was looking forward to it.

He knew what his master had done. Or must have done, to make the poor young doctor react in such a way-- Sebastian had been able to smell the man’s lust from across the room. A desperate and tenuous desire, laced with a pungent little dash of self-loathing; a heady blend. Amongst the demon’s particular favourites. And his master’s too, apparently-- the brat had been enjoying that diversion.

It must have been a small thing between the two of them. But enough to leave the scent of Arthur’s touch on his master’s skin. Enough to make the boy avoid Sebastian’s gaze.

The demon considered his master’s question.

 _Was_ there something bothering him?

Oh, no. Not in the slightest. It was amusing to watch the boy develop to such a point, aware of his own power and playing with it. Arthur had never had a hope of resisting. Few men would be able to resist that strange cold beauty, and very soon, when the Earl of Phantomhive had developed just a little more-- in body, in manners-- he would find himself just as attractive to women. They pitied him already, fussing over his pretty face and sorrowful history. This would become another weapon in a clever boy’s hands. The earl would be sure to test it. He was clearly beginning his exploration already. 

A piquant development, Sebastian thought. There would be a touch of maturation now in his master’s sharp taste. 

He paused in the hallway to inspect the ebony side-table: dusty, of course, and he sighed on his way down the stairs.

Something is lost. Something is gained. The development of a soul’s flavour is a delicate balance; it requires enough filth to salt the ripening, but not so much that the palate is muddied. Equilibrium.

His master would probably invent some annoyance for him this week, as punishment for his play-acting as the vicar. And in turn he might possibly organise some small reparation of his own.

The boy would regain his focus. There would be no more nonsense with _others._

His master’s collar had been crooked when he came down this morning. Even in disguise, Sebastian had itched to tweak it straight. 

Soon enough it would be his duty again; care of the earl’s wardrobe. Care of his house, his food, his body. And the demon wanted it. All of it. He wanted the contrary small thing, damp with desire and heady with arousal, the scent of impurity rubbed into their skin and lingering in the boy’s bed.

It was no more than his master owed him.

*********

Ciel pushed his chair away from his desk and sighed, stretching his back. There was a whole slew of telegrams to work through. Three days away from work and the cog-wheels rust.

At least the servants were back; he heard the wagon in the courtyard. And Finny’s voice rising in the front garden; and hushed again. 

He wouldn’t have a chance to speak to Sebastian tonight-- or tomorrow, and the knowledge sat uneasily; they’d finished the conversation, though. There was nothing to be said. If it wasn’t mentioned, it would simply clear. Mud churned up in a swollen river, soon to settle again.

Ciel frowned. It wasn’t quite apt, though. Wrong river.

Wrong bloody analogy: this thing was a thread pulled tight. And tighter, looped about one’s fingertip, cutting off the circulation. It stretches to its limits. Flesh swelling, empurpled, and the thing must snap.

If Sebastian had wanted to say something he would have. Surely. He’d never spared his master before. Perhaps it made no difference to him how Ciel treated any of the guests-- any of them. Even Arthur.

Ciel’s body felt loose and hollow. Relief. Or disappointment. Why must everything feel so similar? 

Either way the thread was broken now, and there was only a space between.

And no way to get across.

The house had never felt so full of Sebastian’s presence. Perhaps because of the continuous irritation of his absence, the continuous realisation that he wouldn’t come. It struck as sharp as clockwork every time. 

Ciel called for tea and remembered too late that Tanaka would be the one to deliver it. 

He needed a reference book and reached for the bell, but stopped. What was the point? Mey-rin would take half a minute to leave whatever she was doing, and another three to climb the stairs to his office. And then she’d have no clue where the bloody book was anyway; he could just as well go and get the bloody thing himself. Less effort.

He went, and noted the gathering dust on the hall tables outside.

The house was normal. 

He gasped on the landing. ‘What on _earth_ \--’

‘Apologies, sir, if you were startled.’

Ciel glared up at Sebastian. ‘I believe I made it quite clear this morning that you were to stay out of everyone’s sight unless my life was in danger.’

‘You were voluminously clear, my lord.’ The demon bowed. ‘I was simply ensuring that our new guest was properly contained in his bedroom. And there was a most distressing draft coming in through the drawing room window.’

‘And how did this put my life in danger?’ But he could already guess the answer.

‘Well, young master, if the draft were to cause the air temperature within the house were to fall too dangerously low this evening--’

Exactly as he’d thought.

‘--during your bath, after which you will invariably fail to dry your hair properly--’

‘The quick version, Sebastian.’

‘Pneumonia and death.’

‘That’s ridiculous.’

‘That’s logical reasoning, sir; exploring every eventuality. I thought you approved of that sort of thing.’

‘Why did you really come out of your room?’

The butler shrugged. ‘I ran out of things to count.’

‘Have you so little patience as that?’ Ciel made a rude noise. ‘Stay within your quarters. All day. All night, and again all day tomorrow. This is an order, Sebastian.’

‘Yes, my lord.’ The butler paused. ‘I was about to bring you some tea.’

Ciel curled up his hands. Tempting. He would have to ring for Tanaka soon, anyway. And Sebastian was already here. 

‘Very well,’ he said crossly. ‘Be quick about it.’

‘I shall bring it to your study, sir.’

‘No,’ Ciel said. ‘The glasshouse.’

He settled himself back over in the conservatory with a book. Jules Verne, he’d read this one before; but his mind was wandering. His seat upstairs beside the library fire would be warm too, but this heat sat differently on his skin. It felt like summer in here. Lush green, languid silence; green and gilt like the linen cover lying open on his lap. A bright scent of orange blossoms from the potted trees, glossy-leaved in a row beside the door. Drooping boughs of pale bamboo.

It was controlled, though, an artificial landscape-- a semblance of nature. Some wealthy nobles might extend the semblance further and fill their conservatory with tropical birds, too, rustling feathers in the branches and the drift of butterflies amongst the hanging orchids. Not here, though; the glass husk held only plants. A false world in miniature.

He heard the silver clink of the tray.

‘I do hope nobody saw you.’

‘Nobody sees me if I desire otherwise, my lord.’

 _And do you get everything you desire?_ Ciel kept his eyes on his page. ‘You shouldn’t be wandering around the place.’

‘I have just been finalising some arrangements for Master Snake, sir. Hot water and a clean shirt, most notably.’

‘You’re to remain dead until further notice.’ Ciel glanced up at Sebastian’s lapel. ‘Tanaka still has your badge. You’re off duty.’

A pause. ‘Understood, sir.’

Ciel poked at the tray of cucumber sandwiches that the butler set before him. Last week he would have sent this back to the kitchen and demanded cake, but today it almost didn’t matter. There would be no point. 

He looked down at the dainty triangles of bread. Had he been trained like a puppy? And when had this happened?

‘At least Master Snake will have a fitting home, sir.’

‘We still have one problem.’ Ciel pulled his mind back to the present moment. Today, tomorrow. ‘What do you intend to tell the other servants? If you simply walk back inside--’

‘They are not paid to ask questions, sir. And I’m not paid to answer them.’

‘They’re stupid,’ Ciel said flatly. ‘But nobody is that stupid.’

Sebastian shrugged. ‘They have made mental allowances for Finny’s strength and Mey-rin’s vision. I’m sure the peculiarities of the Phantomhive staff have ceased to cause them any astonishment, at this point. I do, however, have a plan. The deaths were all reported in the newspapers, sir, both metropolitan and rural; there is no avoiding it. I have made arrangements for a funeral.’

‘Funeral. Are you quite serious?’ Ciel put his book down in his lap. He folded his arms. ‘You have a flair for theatrics which I find most--’

‘Entertaining?’

‘Appalling.’

‘The headstone has already been engraved, my lord.’

Ciel stared. ‘How the bloody hell did you--’

‘I have the name of a very reputable undertaker, young master.’

Ciel couldn’t find an answer to that.

Sebastian folded his hands. ‘Well, I think it will be most amusing.’

That didn’t deserve a reply.

‘And this morning I received a telegram from Prince Soma, requesting to know when the service will be held.’ 

Ciel closed his mouth tightly. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But the cost is coming out of your pay.’

The demon looked unconcerned. ‘And what do you plan to do with Master Snake? You are not fond of pets.’

‘He will serve as a footman.’

Sebastian stopped. ‘Sir?’

‘You’re always complaining that the staff are incompetent. Now you have somebody to mind the carriage while you are off poking cutlery into people, or whatever it is you like to do.’

‘You did not spare the trapeze girl.’

Ciel sat very still. ‘She tried to kill me.’

‘So did Snake, sir.’ 

‘I fail to see your point. Am I not the master?’

‘You are, my lord. But--’ Sebastian paused. His face held a sort of ugly triumph. ‘That sounds perilously close to sentiment, my lord.’

Ciel looked back down at his book. ‘He tried to kill me. Now he is in my house, under the watch of my head butler, and he is no longer trying to kill me. There is no sentiment. I keep my enemies very close.’

‘So I see.’ Sebastian paused. ‘And how close do you keep your friends?’

‘Hmm.’ Ciel turned a page. ‘You cannot accuse me of having many of those. Irrelevant.’

‘I simply wondered if it was the same strategy that directed you to attach yourself to Mr Arthur.’

And here it was.

It didn’t matter. Ciel already knew what to say. ‘He was unexpectedly clever.’

‘Indeed, sir.’ Pleasantly.

‘It isn’t often that our plans are disrupted for the better. It’s a novelty I could become accustomed to.’

‘Indeed, sir.’ The edge came through the velvet this time.

‘And his manner was quite nice.’

‘ _Nice_.’ And although Sebastian’s voice was soft, he said the word in the same tone Finny used when he said _slug._

‘Precisely.’ Ciel put down his tea-cup. ‘His honesty was refreshing and his morals solid. Far from the usual sordid humanity we have dealings with. A rare creature.’ And he smiled up at his butler. It was a slow proper smile, and he watched it move over Sebastian’s face like a pebble striking water.

‘And you found _nice_ an appealing novelty, young master.’ The demon met his gaze with fine composure. Oh, that insolent inhuman beauty. ‘I would never presume to criticise my lord’s opinion, of course.’

‘Of course,’ said Ciel, and waited.

‘In this case, however, I am inclined to find your comment a little contradictory, sir. I was not aware that bourgeois morality held any interest for you.’

‘But that is my point exactly. Mr Arthur’s behaviour was an external expression of an internal bias. He is, I believe, a genuinely honourable person, compelled by personal integrity rather than social expectations. Therein lies his value to me.’

Sebastian paused by Ciel’s chair. He didn’t answer immediately. And his bland smile lingered over his clenched teeth when he turned. ‘I would be fascinated, sir, to hear of his value to you.’

Ciel took his time. Counted three. Steepled his fingers silently on his chest, watching the cold garden beyond the conservatory glass. ‘He is something like true north to a broken compass, Sebastian.’

‘I see.’ The demon’s voice was low. ‘Do you intend to make a habit of collecting such humans, young master?’

‘My habits are no business of yours.’ Ciel didn’t hide his contempt. ‘My soul might be forfeit but it isn’t yours just yet.’

‘Nor is it anybody else's, my lord.’

‘True,’ Ciel said. ‘But you have no need to worry. I don’t believe Arthur had any interest in my soul.’

And he saw the look reflected over Sebastian’s face. The tightening. The twitch of the bitter mouth.

‘Very well, sir,’ said Sebastian finally. His voice was much quieter than Ciel had been expecting. ‘You have raised the subject, and you may finish it. What is it that you wish to tell me?’

‘Nothing,’ said Ciel. 

The demon unclasped his hands, and re-folded them. ‘I am aware that you were playing some game of your own with Arthur. I think you know my sense of hearing is quite acute.’

‘Not that it is any business of yours,’ Ciel said again. He watched Sebastian’s face. ‘He kissed me. I permitted it.’

‘And how did you enjoy that, my lord?’ The demon was smiling faintly.

Ciel tried to meet the empty gaze. And then it was too much, and he looked abruptly down at his book. ‘It was only my cheek,’ he said.

Sebastian paused. ‘Peculiar little thing,’ he said. ‘That doesn’t answer the question.’ He was wiping his gloved hands on his waiter’s cloth. ‘Or perhaps it does.’

Ciel was silent.

‘Arthur disturbed your plans, sir. I have never known you to enjoy that. Did you also enjoy telling him the truth?’

‘If you’d done your job as you were ordered, we would never have been forced to reveal anything.’

‘It did not irritate you, then, that he pitied you. That he considered you a helpless child.’

Ciel closed the book. ‘It was in our interests that he believe in my innocence.’

‘Arthur saw what you wanted him to see, my lord. Truth and lie were your design. But I know you for what you are.’

‘That’s enough from you.’ Ciel stood up. The back of his neck was hot. ‘You’ve said quite enough today.’

Sebastian took a step forward. ‘I am not quite finished, sir.’

‘You are not in any position to--’ Ciel broke off as the demon’s gloved fingers gripped his chin. ‘Don’t,’ he said coldly. ‘Get off me.’

Sebastian’s other hand was still folded behind him as though he was bending to pour the tea. But his eyes gleamed like obsidian. Sharp enough to draw a spark.

‘Do you want softness, sir?’ The demon bent and spoke low against his ear. ‘Do you want gentleness?’ 

‘Don’t be disgusting.’ Ciel swatted at the demon’s wrist but his stomach clenched, tight and quick. ‘I haven’t the time for this.’

‘Young master.’ Sebastian’s fingertips dug in tighter. ‘If you will be so kind as to look at me.’ 

Ciel looked. Because the demon was holding him, and his burning eyes were level now, and there was nowhere else to turn. 

Sebastian tipped his head. But he was silent when he leaned in again, and Ciel closed his eyes.

The demon’s breath was hot. Soft against Ciel’s upper lip. A delicate pressed kiss.

And his lower lip, a nudge.

And then Sebastian’s tongue. Wet, tender. Startlingly hot. Ciel tried not to cry out at the push into his mouth. 

His hands were shaking. This is not what he’d meant. Not what he’d wanted. And the demon’s gloved fingers were firm on his chin and his legs were going to collapse, and how did Sebastian _dare_ \--

Achingly hot, a taste like blood. Like honey. The demon’s sumptuous slow lips.

Ciel leaned back against the table. Holding onto the edge of it, his palm pressed into the grit of spilt sugar. And he made a sound against the demon’s mouth, not _stop_ , something else, and Sebastian pushed in firmly. Closer. Gripping the table, his firm body shifting against Ciel’s chest.

The tea-cups rattled.

The demon’s fingers were loosening from his chin and sliding lower, warm around his throat. Tucking behind his collar. Tilting back his head. Ciel’s skin prickled hotly, damp beneath his shirt and down his spine. His blood hammered too fast for breath. 

Sebastian’s tongue was a slow glide around his own and Ciel opened his mouth, allowed it in deeper. The graze of fangs across his lower lip, and the wet lick. Hungry now. 

Ciel moaned. Flushed. It hardly mattered. His ears were humming and his body with it, one high keen note, sustained. A plucked string. His cock arched sharply at the demon’s knee.

He shuddered, gasping. And again. His chest was heaving. He half-opened his eyes, daring a glance. And the demon’s gaze glittered under dark lashes, watching him.  
  
  
  


Ciel pulled back, dizzy. Like the break of a dream, gulping for air, and he’d been holding Sebastian’s jacket. He released it. He blinked, his breath unsteady, and his eyes were stinging wet, damn it--

He didn’t look up at Sebastian as he pushed the demon’s chest away from him. As he headed for the doorway, his vision blurring. 

He pressed his shirt-cuff to his nose and sniffled; unpleasant. 

His heels sounded too loud over the flagstones, across the marble foyer, echoing on the stairs, noisy in the absence of any other sound. Even the ringing in his head had ceased, abandoning him. A perfect vacuum.

Blindly on the soundless carpet. 

He found his office. His desk, and sat down, and buried his heated face in the crook of his arm. He felt suddenly heavy in his solid chair. 

He was tired, of course. That’s all this was, an exhausting overreaction. He needed sleep, some respite from this mortifying body. 

He dug in his pocket for a handkerchief and didn’t raise his head to look at the clock for quite a while. He didn’t want to know how much time he was wasting on this shallow self-indulgence; burrowed into his arm, his hand tucked between his legs, fingers curled hot and still against the throb of his cock. Biting his bottom lip.

He ached.

He could unbutton and relieve himself of this. But it was filling him, swelling with every breath and sinking into his bones, and it was enough to hold this sensation trapped like a wild bird, waiting. Thinking.

Only later did he wince in fury at himself for having walked straight up here. He hadn’t stopped to ascertain how the demon had taken it. Had the beast been amused? Had he realised what he’d done?

Ciel groaned into his sleeve. He hated this the most, the way that every day, every hour needed a period of recovery, a withdrawal to his desk like a general poring over his maps and strategies. There was no simplicity, no comfort. 

No.

What he hated most was this: that he was tired of strategies. 

The shame of it burned in his belly. It made him feel as if he was being pulled inside out for all the world to see; too bare, too loud. Every thought. Shame for the terrible tugging weakness that made him want to turn towards the night like a child and forget everything, every move he had planned and every choice he’d taken to get here.

It felt wrong. He was tired of feeling wrong.

He was tired of feeling.

Sleep, then.

But his closed eyes burned hot, and the tears still stung in his throat. Tickling his wet nose. Sleep would have to wait.

  
  


*********

The nudge at Sebastian’s ankle was insistent, but he kept his eyes closed.

‘My lady,’ he said, ‘if you wish to be fed, you must ask for it.’

Again, softly, a lash of her twining tail against his thigh. 

Sebastian crossed his ankles and sunk lower in his chair, hands folded in his lap. He opened one eye. ‘I should warn you now. Seduction will get you nowhere.’

The cat made a high soft complaint. Then Sebastian felt claws in his knee and her sudden soft weight in one pounce into his lap, and he sighed as the warm nose pushed under his chin. A tickle of fur.

‘Patience,’ the demon said, but he wasn’t speaking to the cat. 

Even an animal knows how to play this game. When to retreat in haughtiness, and when to venture out with this most lovely hunger.

Sebastian pulled off his glove and laid it on his desk, and scooped the cat closer to him. Tender belly. Impatient flexing tail. The amusing rough tongue, and cropped velvet of her dark fur.

The demon felt his way down her back, his fingertips slow. A dog would greet this touch with deplorable simplicity: aggression at a threat, or immediate concession to a superior strength. Cats, however, meet a superior with complete disregard. Which would suggest that they have no superior. 

Or will admit none.

Sebastian breathed in deeply. 

It had seemed a pleasant notion to leave his master frustrated. To allow the boy to flee from the conservatory still hanging on that kiss, a humming chord that begged for resolution. Now, of course, Sebastian could see the flaw: maybe it would have been better to wait, to time it for such a moment when he could take full advantage of the boy’s softening; in the bedroom. Or the study, undisturbed.

Sebastian breathed out slowly. Perhaps it was only his own impatience that prompted his dissatisfaction. It seemed too close beneath his skin, only a mortal breath away; a sharpening arousal.

Oh, that sweet small mouth. Trembling hands. 

He needed more of it. He needed that flavour in his mouth, beneath his touch, that peculiar yielding quality of the boy’s body.

Sebastian tucked his stroking finger under the cat’s chin. 

It would be pleasant to have the boy all night, counting down the golden minutes until cool dawn. An entire night had significant potential. Arthur, of course, hadn’t used his time efficiently. 

But you _permitted_ it, did you, sir?

Actually. Sebastian sniffed. _Actually_ , perfect vengeance would be to cuff his squirming master into bed. He could pin down his little prey and fuck the greedy creature until they were both sated, until the boy was overwhelmed and fell silent under him.

But he already knew this outcome. They had played this game already, and satisfaction was proving complicated.

The demon drummed his fingers against the edge of his desk. 

The boy stepped too easily back into the shadows of his mind, out of the glaring immediacy of reality and into that timeless place where a foot-fall makes no echo. Where things are suspended. Safe. Where he had time to consider things.

An escape, and the demon had no intention of allowing him that. 

The earl had turned away from his servant’s kiss. Another escape, but at least it was a literal scamper for the door, not a metaphorical one; and that was rather fascinating. The boy had run away, but first he had responded. His lips pressing curiously. Eager little mouth. Shrinking away from Sebastian’s body as though he didn’t _like_ it but his fingers had clung tight to Sebastian’s coat and no, the demon didn’t believe for a moment that his master had wanted it to stop. 

Curious to think. This was what the boy had wanted from him.

But if Sebastian had followed him up to his study, how far would he have gotten before the boy eluded him again? In spirit, if not in body-- and he’d known this, he’d always _known_ the contrary brat might do this to him.

Perhaps he had been too rough with his master.

Although he’d always tried to be mindful of the earl’s youthful body, the delicacy of his skin, his limbs; the same way he handled the barnyard kittens, always aware of their fragile bones. Even when he’d pushed his little master he’d never forgotten what he was playing with. He understood mortal limitations better than they knew themselves.

A pity the earl didn’t appreciate that. But it was probably foolish to expect him to trust a demon.

‘And you, my lady. Why do you trust me?’ Sebastian settled his fingers linked around her neck. ‘I could break you like a prince’s promise.’

The cat batted her paw at him and he let her loose again, running his hand indulgently down her spine.

She licked at his gloved fingertips. 

‘Because I feed you,’ he said. ‘Because your passing mood for attention is occasionally greater than your perpetual desire for independence.’

Her appetites guided her.

What guided the young master?

Sebastian had led the boy this far into the mire of sin. But perhaps the truest guide should be the boy’s own lust. There was hatred enough in that little pointed face when he spread his legs for his servant’s pleasure, but half of that hatred was for himself. 

The boy knew he must submit eventually. But perhaps it would not be graceful. Perhaps such a thing was beyond him. 

If Sebastian lay down like a lion, and awaited his lamb--

‘Enough,’ said the demon. The cat was clawing at his wrist. He pushed her off his lap and stood, leaning to pry open the window above his bed. 

The cat was watching him, transfixed.

‘Lazy, aren’t you.’ He sighed. And he leaned out of the window to whistle, quick and high. A chirrup. There was a flit of brown wings as a sparrow darted into the room. It circled the room curiously and alighted on the wooden floor, pecking. 

The cat sat tensely. 

A flutter. A quick scuffle, and a drift of small feathers in the evening light.

‘Clever thing,’ Sebastian said, ‘clever hungry thing.’

He sat down on his chair again, and his body thrummed with satisfaction at the crunch of bird’s bones coming from under his bed. 

The bird was prey. The cat was carnivorous. And what did that make him?

Assistance. 

Opportunity.

Temptation.

And perhaps he’d always known this too: the earl of Phantomhive had never been anyone’s prey. The boy was not a bird to be snared; he was a beast to be charmed and fed. 

The cat snarled wetly.

‘ _Bon appetit_ ,’ said the demon.

********

The conservatory was empty when Ciel went back down. The tea things were packed away and the table had been swept clean of crumbs. But his book was where he’d left it, abandoned on his chair. 

Ciel tucked it tightly under his arm and made his way back to the house.

As long as the manor had been full of guests he’d managed to be swept along in the busy rush of things, following it like a tide. A river. And it had been a sort of truce, working with Sebastian against Her Majesty’s interference, a thrill to turn his mind to something else and have his servant at his side again.

A momentary break in hostilities for the greater good. The bigger plan. 

Except it hadn’t been, not at all, and there was never a truce with that creature. Now that the house was empty again, Ciel felt it keenly. As though the chess-board had been swept clear of everything except the last two lonely pieces. He faced the black knight alone. 

The rest had only been a distraction, anyway. 

Ciel settled himself back at his desk, propped in the heavy mahogany chair. Gazing around the room.

It was deceptive. Everything in his world just as it had been; every detail complete. But something wasn’t right today. It felt too near, exhausting, patterned wallpaper and velvet drapes and bookcase, like leaning into a dolls’ house. Closing in around him. Or distant, perhaps, just out of reach. 

Something like the feeling he’d once had in this very room, playing with the telescope out on the balcony. When he was very small. He’d come in here one evening and found the french doors open and the summer night’s air hanging sweetly in the room, and a trail of cigar smoke as though his father had just stepped away.

As indeed he must have, because low voices murmured over somewhere amongst the book shelves, and it was his father’s voice in that sleepy warm growl he used when he was playing with the dog. And somebody with him.

But Ciel had only wanted to touch the telescope. He’d wanted to see the stars. Maybe Altair, which sits in the Aquila constellation, or perhaps Gemini; they’d heard the story from their father’s book. Castor and Pollux, one golden and one blue. Perfect twin stars.

And when Ciel had stepped out onto the balcony, up to the beautiful brass telescope on its long-legged stand, looking through the little glass pane-- he’d found he couldn’t find the stars at all. Only the darkened village down in the valley, and the market lights and the church spire; and he’d flicked the little lenses as he’d seen his father do. And the church spire was suddenly closer, and then far away. And close again. Blurred; clear. Far; near. Blink. Blink. 

And then his father’s hand had touched his shoulder and he’d nearly yelped when he turned around. Surprised in the dark. And Papa’s face had been stern and of _course_ Ciel already knew he wasn’t supposed to be up here without asking, he didn’t want to hear it again in that tired low voice. 

And of course Papa hadn’t called him _Ciel._

And the other man had been waiting for them in the doorway with his arms folded, the German man with the frowning eyebrows. Diedrich, of course. Although Ciel hadn’t known it then. 

Memories are like a telescope, too; gazing at familiar scenes. The same faces. The same rooms. But the proportions are all wrong. Too close; too far away. 

Besides, Ciel knew better now; Gemini is not a summer constellation. He’d never have found it that evening. It sinks low on the horizon as the winter frosts melt, as the world turns, and if he went out tonight--this very night-- he might catch a last glimpse of it. The stars were still above him. Despite everything.

There had been too much to think about today; and the blasted demon, trying to kiss him. Perhaps that deserved a reprimand.

And Snake; ah. 

Ciel rolled his pen between his fingers. He had never imagined he’d see Snake’s face again. 

Or ever have reason to recall Doll’s broken voice. 

Doll had known what he was. She’d seen it; her own betrayal, and his corruption. She’d wanted to kill him for it. And there was no comfort to be found in contemplation, because death was no more than he deserved. He’d betrayed her, and left her only an ending; Sebastian, who would always be the end of everything.

Lying was something Ciel did well these days. Perhaps there was no more truth to his existence than the demon’s. Sebastian shifted like smoke before the wind, dispersing quietly. Perhaps that was the fate of all corruption; to collapse into nothingness, a final disintegration.

Not such a terrible fate.

Ciel sighed. He wouldn’t mention anything to Sebastian again. About Arthur. About kisses. Things were supposed to be resolved. His life would pick up where they’d left it, if neither said anything. 

As for that--where exactly things _had_ been left-- 

Ciel turned back to his open files. 

It was slow work, though. There was a problem, too, with supplies for Funtom’s Easter line-- their German manufacturer had sent over the broadsheets for the Bitter Rabbit paper dolls, and the ream was full of misprints.

Ciel put down his pen again with a huff.

He could have used a British printer. But Dietrich knew somebody who knew somebody who was willing to print for half the price--or, more likely, had strings on somebody who was blackmailing somebody who wanted to keep their business intact-- and the German polychrome printing presses were very advanced, after all.

It was five weeks until Easter. They could order another shipment; he had the Calais weather reports and the Thames tide charts on his desk. What he did not have was the printing company’s details, and Ciel sighed.

Sebastian would know. But Sebastian was not on duty this afternoon.

He closed his files and pushed back his chair and slowly, with infinite reluctance at the endgame’s inevitability, he unbuttoned his shorts.

Dissolution, he thought dimly over the clamorous ache of his cock. If only everything was so simple.

Dinner was a quiet affair. Scarcely any point in picking up his fork; Ciel could tell by the sight of the gravy that Bard had made it. There was a little lump of congealed flour in it and Sebastian would never have permitted that to leave his kitchen. 

Finny’s voice sounded out in the service corridor behind the baize door. Mey-rin served at the table, slow but careful. Her downcast eyes were tired with weeping. They still believed they had lost their head butler, of course; but the butler had never been what he pretended. They’d only lost an idea. An illusion. 

And it would be restored soon enough; smoke and mirrors, disappearances and a magical restoration. _Is this your card, sir?_ It would always be his card. Sleek black. An Ace of Spades. _Espada_ , a sword, a weapon disguised as a billiard-room plaything; always his card, and it would follow him to the edge of the world.

Ciel pushed his plate away. He needed sleep.

Tanaka was tidying the dressing room while Ciel took his bath. It was no more than habit on the Steward’s part; the clothing shelves were already in order. The old man made no mention of this, or the door to the master bedroom-- hung back on its hinges, as though it had never been damaged-- or the clean linen on the bed. He made no mention of Sebastian at all. 

He only paused in the doorway as Ciel stepped into the hot water.

‘I believe there is to be a funeral on Saturday, young master. There was a telegram from the Undertaker.’

‘Yes,’ said Ciel. ‘As far as I know.’ He hesitated. ‘Things will be back to normal afterwards.’

Tanaka bowed and left silently. It was not an explanation, but the old man could gather something from that; some shadow of the truth. 

There would never be truths. Only suggestions. 

Ciel caught his own reflection in the bath water, briefly, before the surface was broken by his movement; his own unhappy mouth. And two eyes, miscoloured like faint stars.

Castor and Pollux. Not perfect twins in the story; one had a human father and the other was immortal. But they had hatched together, and anyone would say that they were exactly the same. Destined to be fixed into legend like jewels set in gold. Hatched, not born, because the god Zeus had come to their mother Leda in the form of a great white swan, an inhuman coupling.

Perhaps some mortals have always desired monsters. 

And Leda--ah, Ciel recalled his Greek lessons as he stepped out of the bath again and slowly dried his hair. Leda was the Queen of Sparta, and her other child was a girl: Helen of Troy. Destined for another legend.

Perhaps some families have always been cursed by destiny. 

Ciel watched the shadows swaying over his bed canopy as Tanaka moved around the quiet room, stoking up the fire and taking the candelabra as he closed the door.

Sleep should have come easily to him, in this tense exhaustion, but it did not. He heard the clock striking ten. 

And the owls out in the pine trees on the ridge. 

And the wind funnelling through the chimneys, a sound like a ghost’s sigh. But he knew this house’s noises. 

And the clock striking eleven. 

And it was good to be back in his own room, and feel the silence of the house. No need to talk to anyone tomorrow. He’d be able to finish his book. 

A dog barked somewhere distant and he rolled over uneasily; he didn’t like the sound. But there would be no problem. Tanaka wouldn’t allow anything into the manor’s gardens. 

The old man would be patrolling the manor house alone tonight. 

If Sebastian chose to be obedient.

Surely if there was a problem the demon would have to respond-- if the house was attacked, or if Ciel called out and wanted hot milk. Sebastian would be obliged to serve him in those circumstances. 

If he had a nightmare.

As he had on the night he’d climbed out of bed and been quite comfortable curled up by the fire, and Sebastian had come in and found him. And had tormented him. And pleasured him; or himself, anyway, and somehow Ciel had found himself wanting it-- and now it was almost difficult to believe he’d ever been afraid of Sebastian’s cleverness. Or his anger or his monstrous strange form; or the heaviness of his lust, his great hunger. 

No. The most dangerous thing about him was that rare quiet mood he was in sometimes, as he had been that night, and his hands on Ciel’s thigh. Stroking down his back.

Most dangerous, because most difficult to combat correctly; and now Ciel was in perilous territory, climbing out aloft a spire in his mind. He couldn’t look down or his head would turn dizzy. 

He needed to think of other things. 

Sebastian’s funeral; Soma would be coming down from London for it. Tiresome. And Elizabeth too; and he didn’t want to follow that train of thought.

He would think of something comfortable, straightforward. His work. The shipment from the printers in Cologne. Better. 

He needed to call them before the weekend and the office closure, which left him only tomorrow. He could wait until next week, of course, but there might be some obscure Continental public holiday he hadn’t factored in; all in all it made much more sense to follow it up efficiently. He only needed the bloody telegram address. 

Sebastian would know. It would take less than a minute to ask.

Ciel pushed back his covers and climbed out of his bed. His dressing gown was at the foot of his bed and he tied it up with automatic fingers as he slipped out into the hallway.

It seemed silly to be walking so quietly. It was his own house. But it would never do to be found wandering, if Tanaka came up to check the windows or if Bard was heading to his quarters. 

He listened to the small dull thump of his own feet on the wooden staircase up. He knew the way to the butler’s bedroom now, although he’d rarely even had cause to think about it before this week. The creature didn’t even need a room; he practically lived in the kitchens, didn’t he?

The corridor of the servant’s garret was dim and the floorboards were cold. The head butler’s door was closed when Ciel reached it. A dim glow of light showed under it.

He should probably knock. But he preferred to be silent, even up in this empty corner of the house.

Something moved beyond the door. ‘Come in.’

Ciel sighed. Of course the creature knew he was here.

He turned the brass handle, and entered on quiet bare feet.

The room was cast in deep shadow and golden light from the small gas-lamp on the wooden desk. 

Sebastian was standing at the wardrobe, closing its door, and he glanced over as Ciel entered. He wasn’t wearing his tailcoat. It was slung over the back of his chair at the desk.

Ciel closed the door behind him and folded his arms over his chest, mostly for warmth. His huff of breath was a cloud in front of him. But he frowned. ‘There aren’t any cats up here, I hope.’

The demon’s face was a study in puzzlement. ‘Why ever would there be cats in this house, sir? I am aware that you do not like them.’

‘I don’t,’ said Ciel. ‘So if there happened to be a cat beneath my roof somewhere, it would be a direct contradiction of my wishes.’

‘Yes,’ said Sebastian pleasantly.

The conversation didn’t seem to be going anywhere.

The butler pulled out the chair and sat down at his desk, and Ciel regarded him evenly. He'd never seen his servant do that. Only in London when they hired a cab sometimes did he see Sebastian seated in his presence. But not here in his own house. The demon hadn’t asked for permission. 

But then again, it was Sebastian’s bedroom. 

‘Sit down,’ said Sebastian. ‘If you like.’ 

There was only the bed, and Ciel sat down on the edge of it stiffly. The buttoned mattress sank slightly over the strung-wire base. A barred iron frame, simple as a hospital bed. 

Ciel ran his hand over the thick linen coverlet. ‘Have you ever even slept here?’

The butler paused. ‘No,’ he said. ‘Not _slept._ ’ The emphasis was worrying.

‘I see,’ said Ciel stiffly. ‘You said you don’t sleep. Correct?’

‘Correct. We rarely need to sleep, sir. Except for recreational purposes.’

Ciel folded his arms again. ‘It’s cold up here.’

‘Cold, is it.’ Sebastian looked around as though he was considering. The hearth was empty; swept clean.

‘You can’t feel it?’ 

‘I suppose,’ said the butler. After a pause. ‘If I think about it.’ His gaze shifted back to Ciel. ‘I was not expecting a visitor, after all. To what do I owe this unutterable honour, sir, that you would--’

‘Cologne,’ said Ciel. ‘I need the details for the German printing house.’

‘It will be filed under P in your study, my lord.’ The butler arched his brows. ‘P for both _paper_ and _printers_. You could not find it?’

‘No,’ Ciel said, ‘I could not.’

‘An irregularity. And the Funtom office did not have it on file?’

Ciel opened his mouth. And closed it again. He hadn’t thought to call them. 

‘We shall try again tomorrow, then.’ The butler brushed off his knees. ‘You had better go back downstairs, sir. It will only get colder, if that is what concerns you.’

‘It isn’t bothering me,’ Ciel said. ‘I can’t feel it anymore.’

‘Then it cannot have been much of a discomfort to begin with.’

The room was still cold. Ciel’s dangling feet were chilled when he rubbed them together. ‘It’s like my shoes,’ he said.

Sebastian’s face was sharp with shadow in the lamplight. ‘Sir?’

Ciel hesitated. He hadn’t realised he’d said that aloud. But he might as well continue. It was not a revealing anecdote. ‘When you put them on in the morning they pinch. But by the time I begin work, the sensation no longer bothers me. I think of other things.’

‘Humans are easily distracted,’ Sebastian said, and his voice was low. Amused.

Ciel sniffed. ‘Adaptability is an intellectual advantage.’

‘Ignoring one’s physical form is not a triumph of the intellect, my lord.’

‘The Stoic philosophers would disagree.’

‘The Stoic philosophers were disagreeable on all counts. The ability to deny your corporal form is dangerous.’

‘One might argue it is very useful,’ Ciel said. ‘The Vikings, for example, and their berserker warriors. They raised their mental focus to such a degree that they felt no pain at all.’

‘No pain, and very little of anything else either, I should imagine.’

‘The power of the mind,’ Ciel said with satisfaction.

‘Is that your aim, my lord?’ The demon was watching him. ‘To feel nothing?’

Ciel looked away. 

Sebastian stood up. He was unbuttoning his waistcoat, and hanging it on the chair. Undoing his collar stud. 

And his top shirt button. 

And his tie. 

Ciel sat up straight. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Getting into my bed, sir.’

‘You said.’ Ciel cleared his throat. ‘You don’t sleep.’

‘This isn’t the sleep, my lord.’ Sebastian smoothed out his tie between his fingers. ‘This is the recreation.’

Ciel flushed horribly. At the words, and the way the demon was turning down the glow of the lamp. And searching in his desk drawer for something, a little blue chemist’s bottle-- something, oil, _oh_ , and then Sebastian was leaning over the bed. Long liquid eyes, pitch-dark.

And the demon was tugging off his glove.

‘That’s not why I’m here,’ Ciel said.

‘Then leave,’ said Sebastian. ‘Sir.’ 

And Ciel found his knees straddled. 

The demon laid his other glove on the side table. He was flexing his fingers slowly, long and bare and white. Polished black nails.

‘I don’t--’ Ciel tried again. ‘I’m not--’

‘I see,’ said Sebastian. He was pulling Ciel’s nightgown up.

And Ciel flushed because he was half-hard under there already, and now that those warm fingers were sliding under his tucked-up knees--

‘I’m allowed to be here. In my butler’s room.’

‘No,’ said Sebastian. He knelt down beside the bed. ‘Not this evening.’

‘What the deuce do you mean?’ Ciel didn’t like the small sound of his own voice, lost in the dim echo of the room. 

‘I cannot be your butler,’ Sebastian said. ‘Not this evening. I am dead, after all. Am I not, sir?’

‘I see.’ Ciel felt the slow press of fingers on his ankle. He closed his eyes. Leaned back on his hands. ‘What are you, then?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ came Sebastian’s voice. ‘Nothing at all. Does it matter to you?’

‘No,’ he whispered.

‘Good.’ The demon was parting his knees gently. ‘Lie down for me.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous. Nobody orders me.’ 

‘I know, sir.’ Warm lips against his thigh. ‘Lie down.’

‘Be quiet.’ Ciel tipped his head back, trying to breathe. And he settled his knees apart. ‘You can’t just tell me what to do.’

‘I know, sir.’ The demon’s soft head pushed between his legs, and the clever tongue ran hot over Ciel’s cock. ‘Lie down.’

‘Don’t order me.’ Ciel dropped onto his elbow, panting. His arousal was flaring like something catching fire. ‘I won’t--’

‘I know. Sir.’ 

‘I can’t.’ Ciel sank back onto the cool coverlet. ‘Only you.’

‘Yes, sir.’ The demon’s voice hummed against his thigh. The tip of his tongue was like another taunt. Breath. Sigh. Wet. Lick. 

‘Only you. Sebastian.’

‘Sir.’

And Ciel breathed suddenly free and limp as the demon’s mouth enveloped him.

He threw his arm across his face, squeezing his eyes closed. The demon pulled it away, pinned it on the bed, and bent his dark head again. Ciel shivered. The lapping mouth sucked him hungrily. Unclean, delicious heat.

It was monstrous to desire a monster. To witness his body’s reaction, to find himself inflamed by the creature’s differentness. By its sameness; every word and movement was a lie, but it was tethered by a kind of honesty. By the gleam beneath Sebastian’s dark lashes. That heavy gaze flicking up at him now, pitch and amber. Enough to trap any winged thing in its depths.

Ciel arched his back, pushing himself up between the demon’s lips.

And Sebastian’s mouth let fall his wet cock in a dripping slither and moved, delicate, lascivious, a velvet trail over hip and belly. Soft at his chest. Sharpened at his nipple, a pinch of teeth, and Ciel moaned. Eyes closed again, his fists curled in the covers.

And he felt the shift of the mattress beneath him, moving with Sebastian’s weight, and he opened his eyes just a flutter; the demon was kneeling over him, pouring a dribble of oil into his palm. His dangerous eyes downcast. 

An impossible sort of silence. 

Ciel closed his eyes again. 

When the demon’s fingertip touched wet at his entrance his shuddered, but the touch was liquid. Warm. Dipping at the pucker.

It slid inside too easily. So carefully, firm and curious. Teasing at him, and the tender ache of his body seized around it.

Ciel tried to be silent, but he was all too aware of his own stifled noise. Breathing, squeaking, murmuring something that wasn’t even words.

‘Mhm,’ said the demon, ‘the _sight_ of you, sir. The way your pretty little--’

‘Shut up.’ A gasp.

‘Open your eyes.’

Ciel turned his head away. ‘Be quiet.’

‘Young master.’ The finger moved within him. Slowly. ‘Don’t you want to see?’

‘No, I--’ Furiously. ‘ _Hh_ \-- Of course not.’ Even the thought of it convulsed him. Even the glimpse when he glanced down, the jut of his own pale shaft pulsing anguished against his belly and the curl of Sebastian’s hand beneath it. 

The demon’s other hand slid to Ciel’s chest. Warm breath at his parted lips and Sebastian hung over him for a moment, his hot eyes unblinking. His lips still wet. Treacherously beautiful. 

‘Delicious,’ said the demon, and kissed him. 

Ciel flushed. It was soft. Unguided. Electric under his skin, rousing him to the fingertips, and this would all be simpler if the demon had turned out the lamp. That low flame was too revealing, leaving him bare to his servant’s heavy gaze, this sordid hunger. The stroking hand at his throat. The finger plunging inside him; and Ciel moaned against the demon’s mouth.

He was going to dissolve. Liquid. Or ablaze.

Sebastian pulled away from his lips with a low sound. ‘Oh, sir,’ said the demon, ‘when you _squeeze_ \--’

‘Stop that,’ Ciel said. It was unsteady.

‘I like it,’ said Sebastian, and Ciel felt the wet quiver of his tongue lick up his cheek. And down over his chin, luxuriantly as the demon unbuttoned himself. 

Ciel lay shivering. These silences. Only the slick little sounds of the creature mouthing him. The glow through his lashes.

Sebastian’s hand slid up to grip his thigh, holding him open. And Ciel gasped through the slow press inside, the smooth burn of the demon’s cock. Full, swelling, and the throb of his whole body seemed to stutter with it. Closing around it.

Ciel shut his eyes again, his lips pressed tight. The ache behind his eyelids twitched through his spine like light and shadow, flickering.

He felt the demon’s grip on his wrist. The little shake. 

‘What?’ Sharply.

‘Your hands, young master.’ The demon spoke evenly, but too slowly. Breathing hard.

‘What?’

‘Relax them.’

Ciel thumped his fist into the covers. ‘Be _quiet_ , I said.’

Perhaps it worked. Sebastian was silent for a while. But he felt the demon’s thumb pushing into his clenched hand, spreading it flat, and the firm press of it made him gasp as it moved in his palm. Circling slowly. 

Ciel was not silent. Though he tried to be, pressing his other fist to his mouth. He didn’t want to know how he looked. It was almost too much just feeling it, the gradual slide of the demon’s cock, stirring him. Deeper. Luscious, cruelly tender, a slow shove inside him. 

He was hot already, his belly and behind his knees. Damp in his aching hands. Tight-chested with a fierce immutable heaviness. His legs limp as the demon’s body rolled against him, each quiver running into his bones. 

He breathed. His arousal twitched, arching between his shivering legs. And the burn inside him was agonising, deep and hungry. Too careful for him to spend, and Ciel could only groan.

He reached down, seeking out the swell of his cock. He flinched as he gripped it. And it sharpened things. Focused the hum in his belly, reflection or refraction, a concentration of the undirected ache.

But Sebastian made a small sound. Took his wrist and pressed it back into the mattress, that insistent hot circling of the demon’s thumb in the curl of his hand, and Ciel turned his face aside, searching for breath. This wasn’t what he needed. 

He’d imagined those teeth buried in his throat. His ribs cracked apart by these black-nailed fingers. ‘I _can’t_ \--’

He didn’t know what he couldn’t. 

Sebastian’s tongue slid hot over his chin. Back to his lips again, and Ciel met it desperately, pushing blindly into the salt of the demon’s kiss as though he might taste some truth. Some finality. Losing himself in the opulent heat between them, the uneasy click of canine fang against his teeth.

And pressed to Sebastian’s mouth he could feel the demon’s noises. Low. Long shuddering sighs, not quite in timing with his thrusts. Slower still. 

Ciel shifted his legs. Panting, pushing his knees against the demon’s chest, and Sebastian let them settle wider. Strong fingers slid under Ciel’s hips. And up his back, holding him closer, cradled hot against the demon’s body, and Ciel breathed in the scent of his servant’s collar, burnt iron and clean linen. And he flinched at the sudden press inside him. A silver shiver through his legs. 

He couldn’t hide his moan.

‘Hm?’ The demon’s low inquisitive sound against his neck. 

‘Shut up,’ Ciel whispered. He was trembling at the movement in his body. Delicate, but it jarred him cleanly. Like a fencing point; engagement, urgent, steel on steel. Each stroke needling at the heaviness in his limbs, the restless surge between his hips.

‘Enough.’ And he was trying to move under Sebastian’s body. Trying to push back against it--some grip, some end. He tried to pull his hand from under Sebastian’s. Clawing at the demon’s neck. Pulling him closer. ‘Enough. I _can’t_ \--’

‘Young master.’ The demon slowed his movements, hanging over him. His long eyes were darkened to vast liquid black. ‘Do you mean that?’ 

Ciel slapped his face.

‘What _are_ you doing, sir?’ And Sebastian had his other wrist held fast. The demon bent and bit him. Raw on his throat. And a sucking sound as he pulled away.

Ciel thrashed. His arousal throbbed, fierce and exhausted. He needed to cry. ‘I want, I want--’

‘What do you want, sir?’ Warm at his ear. 

‘I want to scream.’

‘Oh,’ said Sebastian. ‘I can give you that.’

Ciel heard the iron creak as the demon gripped the bed frame. He clung to the demon’s chest. ‘Ah, wait--’

Sebastian bucked into him. Once, twice. Again. And Ciel screamed. 

The roar seemed to hit behind his closed eyelids. A scintillation of sharpened light, soundless waves. It shook through his body in echoing relief.

Blinding, stellar. Piercing the swell of his chest. And it submerged him.

His throat ached. He felt the demon’s thumb pressed into his spread palm. Circling; slowing. His knees trembled. 

The last jolt of his cock was leaving a dribble over his belly, and he shuddered. His skin still rippled, a hum under the velvet pleasure of the demon’s mouth, soft on his throat. Slowing. The movement of Sebastian’s hips. Slowing, the warm quiver in his body. 

‘Sebastian.’ Almost a sob of pleasure. ‘Oh, Sebastian--’

He lay still. The breathless vacuum above a silent blaze. 

The demon burrowed his soft head against his shoulder with a low purr of satisfaction.

The creature’s triumph moved over him lightly, though. It didn’t even burn.

It was too late for that. 

He felt Sebastian’s cock slide out of him. And Ciel rolled away into the cool sheets, his chest still heaving. Curled on his side. He needed to return to his own room. And his own bed. If he was found up here--

Soon, soon. His head was spinning. He closed his eyes.  
  
  
  
  
  
  


He felt himself stirred, later, and half-opened his eyes. Darkness, and he was being shifted. Warm, the blanket wrapped around him. It was silent. Sebastian was carrying him.

Ciel closed his eyes again. Only the sound of the creature’s footsteps on the wooden stairs as they descended. The tap of heels like clockwork. A winding echo, endless. 

But the demon’s heels fell silent in the soft carpet of the main hallway. Down here on the lower floor the scent of the air changed, from the sharpness of wood polish to the delicate tang of orange blossoms; Ciel knew this air. This particular silence. His bedroom door. 

The hot coal-fire smell in his room, bitter and comforting.

His sheets were cool when Sebastian lowered him onto the pillow. The demon’s fingers brushed his shoulder as the blankets settled over him, and the touch felt different; warm skin. 

Ungloved, Ciel thought, as his bedroom door clicked shut; as he pulled his knees close against his chest and sank into sleep. 

Ungloved. Dangerously naked. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to the incredible [Hom](https://twitter.com/cielleveilleur) for the artwork!  
> And to dear [Sinnergy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinnergy/pseuds/sinnergy) for the eagle-eyed beta. 
> 
> One more chapter left to go for Prepositions... and then an Easter ficlet to round off the series. I hope you guys are all still enjoying this tale as much as I am! I couldn't have made it this far without the lovely support and amazing comments-- so thank you.
> 
> EDIT: turns out there will be two more chapters, not one, for both practical and aesthetic reasons-- there were too many ideas I wanted to include and wasn't willing to cut. I began this fic as a monolith of baroque self-indulgence, and thus I will conclude it...
> 
> The penultimate update is currently cooling on the baking rack and being dusted with icing sugar, and will be served up on February 15.


	20. et circum circa {around again}

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it's not quite the last chapter after all! Although it's very very close.  
> Hmm, the effect of this fic would really be more imposing if I could restrain myself from leaving blithering author's notes, wouldn't it?  
> Too late.

Ciel woke not long after dawn, surprised to find that he had slept at all. It had been soundly too. Not quite dreamlessly; but the images had been distant and strange. Tied into a silver string by that sound, a delicate mechanical tune, warbling like a little steel bird. 

Like his wind-up music box. 

And his mother was winding the clockwork key, and each click of it tugged him closer. Was he tied by the silver string? It tangled through his ribs. His chest was only bones. 

And he was pulled closer still, each step, lost in long grass, the burrs catching on his bare legs. Or was it a black bird at his feet? Hopping to keep pace. Pecking at his skin, sharp bites, and his legs streamed blood when he stepped out into the echoing empty room. Empty with all the anticipation of a bare stage. Or a waiting altar.

Ciel opened his eyes. It was a blur already. It made no sense at all. 

The noise was Finny whistling somewhere near the front steps.

And Ciel rolled onto his back.

This is the most uncomfortable aspect of dreams. In the dim morning light, under the hot blankets, even the most far-fetched concoction of the imagination seems to hold some sort of meaning. But it slips away.

The unspeakable soft weight of sleep was settled in his body, and he could barely move. A stir of memory lay under his skin, though. 

He kicked off the covers in a slow thrash and the nightgown slid down as he raised his bare leg. And then the other. Shivering in the cool air, wavering sleepily. Examining his shins, knees. Thighs. He didn’t know what he expected to see. Perhaps he’d know it if he found it. 

He didn’t find it. 

His skin looked clean. Unmarked. It seemed impossible that the night could have left no trace on him.

Ciel flopped his legs back down into the covers. And one of them was a thick woollen blanket, coarse enough to tickle his skin, out of place amongst his fine sheets. He ran his fingers over the fold of it, closing his eyes again.

Maybe he’d be able to pretend the demon’s bed had been another sort of dream. Something he could leave suspended in an undecided state.

Tanaka would soon be here with his tea; that movement in the hall was probably the echo of his arrival already. Coming up to dress his master, to bring him his newspapers. To await the slow day until the Phantomhive butler’s funeral.

There was a certain simplicity in being served by Tanaka. No anticipation of conflict, because he trusted the old man. He trusted nobody else.

Ciel lay silently, listening to the low trundling clink of the trolley outside his door, and the hollows of his body still burned with the ghost of Sebastian’s hot mouth. 

He had no shadow of faith in his demon. He’d learned this lesson many years ago. One must not trust a creature who hides their fangs. One cannot trust a desire that leaves no bruise. 

‘I shall need a bath,’ Ciel said when Tanaka entered, and the old man prepared it without comment. 

Ciel knew how to employ a bar of soap, but he made no effort to dress himself afterwards. He leaned back against the sofa in his dressing room and allowed Tanaka to fasten his shorts. His garters. His shoes. And the ties of his eye-patch, slow fingers behind his head as Ciel held it in place over his tainted eye; but the old man made no comment on this either. 

A truly loyal servant knows when to hold his silence. For years, if necessary. Ciel knew by now that there were some things the old man would never mention. 

He was suddenly relieved, though, that the beast had left no bite on his skin last night. 

His day was a quiet one; nobody expected anything of him. They probably assumed he was upset. And grief is a useful thing. One can go upstairs again, close the library door, sit down in silence with a decent book, and none will dare to offer a disturbance.

And the staff were quiet today too, still submerged in their own emotions. They’d lost their butler; or believed they had, anyway. But he could not summon excessive pity for their misunderstanding.

Two nights in this house and Arthur had understood that Sebastian wasn’t human. But the servants-- well. Perhaps they didn’t want to see what the butler was. It was easier for them to feel than think. The truth is bitter.

Not everyone has Arthur’s courage. 

Ciel paused on his page, listening to the crackle of the library fireplace beside his chair.

The house was silent without Sebastian. It had never been without its head butler since it had been rebuilt-- recreated?-- by the demon himself, stone by stone, or maybe in one dizzy tumble, a shift of the eye that leaves your stomach churning. Ciel didn’t know. He hadn’t seen it. He’d been looking at something else; fresh soil in the family plot. The cold white rows of marble.

He wondered sometimes if the house was only an illusion. If he concentrated very hard, he might be able to see right through it like a wisp of smoke.

Finny was whistling again outside, high and strange and sweet like a bird; repeating. But then Mey-rin’s voice chimed in and Ciel recognised the tune-- ancient and troubling. A child’s song. 

_Who killed Cock Robin?_

_I, said the Sparrow,_

_With my bow and arrow,_

_I killed Cock Robin._

The words had never made sense to Ciel. A parade of animals. A dead bird. And the murderer confesses in the very first verse but it still doesn’t really explain anything. Somebody died. There’s a lot of talking. 

He closed his book and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

The house was empty; Sebastian might have been a ghost for all the space he filled today. And the world went on in muted silence. 

*************

Saturday. It was sunny, although the morning air was cool.

Ciel tapped his gloved fingertips on the open windowsill of his coach. 

_Who killed Cock Robin?_

_I, said the Sparrow,_

_With my bow and arrow,_

_I killed Cock Robin._

This time it was one of the village children singing outside the churchyard gate. A smudged little brat, her boots up on the iron railings, watching the funeral gathering-- all the grown-ups in their sober suits and the black bands fluttering from hats and sleeves. 

_Who saw him die?_

_I, said the Fly,_

_With my little eye,_

_I saw him die._

The girl wasn’t quite carrying the tune. It was loud and flat. But her sacrilegious cheerfulness was commendable.

A funeral is as good as a circus for some working-class people, and there was quite a crowd of children watching open-mouthed out here; not as good as weddings. But plenty of carriages to watch. Better than the Sunday service, anyway. 

But Ciel only ever seemed to come to church for deaths.

Christmas and Easter, of course; and births and marriages: the only times he’d ever set foot in the churchyard. Although he didn’t expect to attend a christening any time soon; there would be no births. And only one marriage. Perhaps, if it came to that. If he lived that long. 

This funeral would be much like any other; a joke in poor taste, only slightly more foolish than others he’d attended. But we mourn the dead for our own sake, not for those who are gone; they don’t need us any more. 

Whereas we are still tied to them, irrevocably.

The servants were upset. Gathered over at the front door of the church. Noisy. The wallowing, the wailing and the sobbing and the slobbered snottering faces-- good grief, you’d think the butler had been some sort of hero. And Prince Soma’s voice sounded even from here, and Ciel wasn’t quite ready to step out into the churchyard yet.

Do demons like churches? Would it bother Sebastian to be lying inside in that coffin?

‘Ciel!’ Clear golden voice.

He sighed. 

‘Ciel--’ And the scrabble of boots on the iron coach step. ‘ _There_ you are. I saw your coach. Aren’t you coming in?’

‘I am. In a moment. Hello, Elizabeth.’

‘Hello.’ She leaned her chin on her folded arms, framed in the open window. ‘I was so sorry when I heard. I know how much he meant to you.’

‘Hm.’ Ciel tapped his fingers on the top of his cane. And cleared his throat. ‘He is an extraordinary servant.’

‘Oh, Ciel. Are you terribly upset?’

He met her damp fluttering gaze. ‘Lizzie,’ he said. ‘He is an _extraordinary_ servant.’

‘Didn’t he have family? Or anyone at all?’

‘No,’ Ciel said, ‘he is nothing like other people.’

But it was useless. Her confusion sat clearly on her face. And she’d seen the butler at work, she’d witnessed what he was capable of-- even a glimpse, a suggestion ought to be enough. Sebastian managed more than any human could. And she’d _seen_ it. 

This. This determination to misunderstand. Wilful blindness.

There comes a point where ignorance takes more effort than acceptance, surely. 

Then the church bell was tolling, slow and heavy overhead, and Tanaka was opening the carriage door.

‘Come along, Elizabeth,’ Ciel said as he stepped down, as though they were late for the pantomime.

Why must everything be such a show? Even death. 

Blasted creature.

**********

He dismounted from the coach in silence when he returned to the manor, his heels a crunch in the gravel. 

Sebastian had taken the wagon home with the rest of the staff. He hadn’t been given a choice, in fact, because Ciel had ordered Tanaka to drive the carriage back while the others were all standing there wasting time at the church-gate. Tanaka was more than capable of driving his master just this once. 

And Ciel had suspected Sebastian might find a way to join him in the coach on the ride back home, and he had not been in the mood for that.

He ascended the front steps and paused in the foyer, running his fingers over the black silk mourning ribbon on his top hat. 

He left the fraudulent thing on the hall table as he passed up the staircase.

Elizabeth had been sobbing at the open grave. _How cruel. How cruel of Sebastian to lie. He promised he would never leave you._ But the demon could never lie; he’d jingle in Ciel’s pocket, a sulphurous gleam amongst the other bad pennies. 

It was the only promise Sebastian would ever make him.

_I am committed to your service, sir. Until the day that lie becomes truth._

Ridiculous creature, kneeling in the graveyard afterwards-- after Tanaka had given him back the butler’s badge, and Agni had stopped wailing, and everyone had been assured that Sebastian was quite alive and only slightly crumpled-- 

Theatrical to the end. 

But it had been satisfying to hear it.

Ciel pushed open his office door and shuffled off his great-coat and eyed his desk. The waiting ink-pot, the pens laid out neatly in the tray.

Agni seemed to consider Sebastian a friend. The other staff had been distraught before the open coffin, faced with that sight. And the demon’s sort of beauty suited a corpse, really. Lying there white as his own shirt, fine and waxen as the snowy lilies that surrounded him. The glossy petals, the heavy scent, too sharp and carnal for death. 

The terrible sweetness of white lilies. The moist fresh earth. A novel solution, most certainly: lavish and unnecessary and far crueller than it had to be. 

Ciel pushed open the heavy casement window and leaned on the sill. 

Everyone’s sorrow had been very real. And so was their affection, and the creature didn’t deserve a single petal of it. To stir them up like this, distraught, confused, roused to such a point. A chaos of emotion as tumbling as the spring storm clouds that swelled on the horizon, prickling electric over Ciel’s skin, and he seemed to understand something, then. With startling clarity. About what the demon wanted. What he fed on.

Of course it couldn’t just be simple.

But the house was humming again. The kitchen would be in full preparations for his lunch. The Phantomhive badge was pinned on Sebastian’s jacket. Everything was where it should be.

He could get back to work.

*********

Sebastian had one eye on the clock as he carried over the crystal decanter full of milk and set it on the dining room table.

It was twenty-eight minutes past one, and his master’s heels were at the doorway; and the boy was pausing, his arms folded. 

‘Chicken?’

‘Duck, my lord,’ said Sebastian. ‘With a sage and peppercorn gravy.’

‘I see,’ said the boy, and seated himself.

And the demon turned back to his trolley and smiled as he sharpened his carving knife; two quick strokes on the Sheffield steel. A spark.

Things were as they should be.

Both above and below stairs: the staff had been bustling all day since their return from the funeral. Their improved mood was flattering, really. And it had practical repercussions; less mishaps and more enthusiasm, a pleasantness that would probably last right up until Sebastian roused them all out of bed at four o’clock tomorrow morning.

All the more reason to savour this, then. 

The earl leaned back from his dessert plate and wiped his lips on the hem of linen. ‘It’s pleasant to have a decent meal again.’

It was the first thing his master had said during the entire meal. 

Sebastian glanced over at him. 

And the earl was gazing up at him with that steady blue eye, cool as a gemstone. Cool as water. One of those thoughtful looks that seemed to say more than this uncommunicative boy ever did in words; distant, amused. And keenly watchful. 

Sebastian paused. It was the closest thing he’d get to thanks, no doubt. The closest thing to _welcome back_.

‘Oh?’ 

‘It would have been annoying if you’d actually died.’

Sebastian straightened. ‘I am terribly flattered that you missed my baking, sir.’

And the boy turned back to his plate. ‘It was only vanilla sponge with a bit of rhubarb. I expect biscuits with my tea this afternoon. And something better for dessert. Chocolate.’

‘Well, sir--’ Sebastian removed the empty plate with an unnecessary flourish. ‘If my memory serves me correctly, we have not concluded our negotiations on that subject.’

‘Is that so?’ The boy smoothed out his napkin. ‘Your memory appears to be the only reliable thing about you. Remind me. Where did we leave our discussions?’ 

His master was being blunt. Or was the boy going to play innocent and draw his servant into saying something punishable? There is no fun in that. This was supposed to be a game of subtlety. 

Although honesty has a certain charm.

And now Sebastian was so very, very tempted to say it: _you can have your chocolate once I have your mouth around my cock._

But meeting the earl’s directness felt too much like being led. Another time. A better place.

He bowed. ‘Your dessert menu shall be restored upon the fulfilment of a single condition. Which has not changed since we last discussed the matter.’

‘I see. Well, you know my demands. We can discuss this in detail some time next week.’ The boy pushed back his chair. ‘If you’re desperate, though, you can leave a written offer on my desk for Monday morning.’ He dropped his napkin and stood up, and the demon didn’t hide the flare of hunger in his eyes as he watched the slim little stockinged legs mince out of the room.

There it was; a game, after all.

Sebastian cleared the table.

And returned to the kitchens to dice a basket of carrots into mirepoix for the earl’s dinner, while Mey-rin warbled over the dishes, and Finny mopped the scullery floor, and Bard finished eating the rest of the rhubarb pudding.

He would give them all a day of calm before he introduced them to their new staff member tomorrow; they had been through a busy few days. And it would give Snake’s new service uniform time to arrive with the morning deliveries. 

And finding a writhe of poisonous snakes in the scullery would have the greatest impact at dinnertime tomorrow. 

‘I’m so glad you’re back. It was so busy while you were--’ Finny paused, leaning on his mop.

‘You missed the corner behind the door, Finny.’ Sebastian didn’t turn away from the chopping board. ‘The past is unimportant. It cannot be mended and is therefore not worth discussing.’

Of course they were glad he was back. Nobody had wiped down the pantry shelves in five days. And nobody else knew how to smuggle half a bunch of celery into the young master’s chicken soup without the boy realising he was eating vegetables.

He was needed here.

**************

Ciel didn’t ring for tea after lunch. He worked at his desk in silence until three, and then retired back to his book.

But he heard the library door open at half-past. 

And he was aware of the shiver that seemed to stir him like a trailing hand disturbing water; rippling. Subsiding. Calm again.

‘Your book appears to be an absorbing one, sir.’

‘Hm.’ Ciel turned a page. ‘It’s Jules Verne.’

‘I am afraid I’m not acquainted with many modern authors, sir.’

‘Of course,’ Ciel said. ‘You have heard of Charles Baudelaire but have never read anything decent.’

‘Time is limited, my lord.’ The demon was laying out his master’s tea-cup, and his smile showed a glint of fang. ‘One must follow one’s personal interests.’

‘Dirty poetry?’

‘And yours would be--’ The demon leaned over the chair behind Ciel. ‘Ah. Submarines. Fascinating, sir.’

‘It isn’t just submarines,’ Ciel said. ‘It is quite scientific. And the plot is a good one. Although the translation from the French is very bad; I can’t imagine what sort of fool would fail to translate the word _lentille_ as _lens_ in a clearly maritime environment. It’s disgusting to think that somebody found it worthy of publication.’

Sebastian’s voice fell low with amusement. ‘If it concerns you so very much, sir, perhaps you ought to destroy your English copy and read only the original.’

‘No,’ said Ciel. ‘This book was given to me when I was a child. My aunt--’ He stopped. And swallowed.

The demon didn’t answer him. 

Ciel closed the book. ‘Verne was greatly inspired by the works of Poe, the American writer. Perhaps you have--’

‘I know of him.’ The demon bowed beside his chair.

‘Yes. Well. Both of their works have a certain realism which is interesting.’

‘Are they objectively interesting, sir, or do you simply find them so?’

The creature was questioning him. It was mockery.

He chose to meet it bluntly. ‘What?’

‘ _Interesting_ is a judgment. But if you say that you find it interesting, it becomes a statement of opinion.’

‘I’m aware of how English works, Sebastian. They’re interesting books. It isn’t complicated to understand.’

‘Then it ought to be a very simple statement to make, young master. “This is an interesting book, and I like it.” ’

‘Be quiet, I’m trying to read.’

A pause, filled by the gurgle of tea. The splash of the sugar cube. The clink of the spoon. 

‘At least you are using your time profitably, sir. Your usual lessons will resume on Monday.’

‘Good,’ said Ciel. ‘Now that your ridiculous charade is out of the way.’

‘I thought the ceremony was perfectly tasteful.’

‘I was _referring_ to your unnecessary disguise in front of our recent guests.’

‘It was a pleasure to watch your improvisation, sir.’

‘Which I wouldn’t have had to do if I had a trustworthy servant.’ Ciel rolled his eyes. ‘But I have to do everything myself, of course.’

‘Do you, my lord? I had hoped that my own improvisation was of some use to you.’ The butler set the tea-cup on the table at Ciel’s elbow. ‘You have often said yourself, sir, the outcome is more important than the process taken to reach it. And you are admittedly content with the outcome.’

‘I was accused of murder and you made no attempt to defend me.’ Ciel didn’t look up as he reached for his tea. ‘Some servant you are. You were going to let me take the fall.’

Sebastian paused. ‘But I always intended to catch you again at the bottom.’

Ciel sipped. The sharp bergamot flavour shivered over his tongue and all the way down his back. 

He was silent. 

And the butler turned back to the tea trolley. ‘I believe you must have found some value in Baudelaire’s works, my lord. You finished the entire volume of his poetry.’

‘That doesn’t mean I found it to my taste.’

‘And you did not stop reading after two hundred disagreeable pages?’

‘Some things have a value in their novelty that is more than simply--agreeableness.’

‘Of course, my lord. For example, your midnight peregrinations on Thursday evening. Would you say your experience was one of novelty or enjoyment?’

Ciel didn’t raise his burning face. ‘This isn’t a topic for conversation.’

The demon dropped a sugared round of shortbread onto Ciel’s plate. ‘I rather thought it was enjoyment.’

‘I didn’t--’ Ciel shifted against the chair. ‘It was satisfactory. I’m not about to discuss it.’

‘Oh?’ A pause. ‘Well. I have been considering the matter, and next time I intend to--’

‘You think that will ever happen again?’

‘I think it very likely, young master.’ 

‘Be quiet.’ His chest was damp. He needed a moment to think. ‘You say that too easily. Fetch more biscuits.’ 

The demon was bowing. 

And Ciel leaned his chin on his fist and didn’t raise his eyes from his page.

Sebastian thought about him, then. About what he wanted to do. _Next time._

When did he consider these things, while he was working? Or perhaps at night, when everyone was quiet. Ciel had never imagined just what the demon spent his free time thinking about; killing things and eating them, probably. And now this too. 

Perhaps Sebastian thought about it when he was busy in the kitchen. Perhaps it made his body feel as hot as Ciel’s did sometimes. What did he imagine? Did he touch himself?

The thought wriggled sharply through Ciel’s body.

And the demon was pausing at the doorway. ‘So Monsieur Verne was inspired by the works of the American.’

‘That is what I said.’

‘But it would appear Monsieur Verne does not know English.’

‘Then I can only assume that he read Poe’s works in French. Hopefully the work of a more careful translator than this one.’

‘Quite correct, sir. The French editions of Edgar Allen Poe were translated by a poet named Charles Baudelaire.’ 

Ciel looked up. ‘Oh.’

‘Indeed,’ said Sebastian. ‘Next time I think I shall teach you how to ride me.’ He bowed. The door closed behind him.

And Ciel slammed his book shut and bit his thumbnail.

This creature. His cheeks burned. He needed to take control of this. 

But he couldn’t hope to win the game when he didn’t even know what victory might look like.

Perhaps it would be something that could not be observed: only sensed, finding something with one’s eyes closed. The way he weighed things in his hands sometimes--his dinner fork or his books or his glass paperweight--and wondered if they were the same ones he'd touched as a child, or just a clever mimicry of truth. If it was genuine he should be able to feel it, surely. The object would hold its own truth. 

He paused, feeling. Waiting. And the memory of the demon’s body was too hot inside him still. 

Perhaps the Stoics had it right after all. Avoid all attachment to things, to places. To people. To the excessive passions of the flesh. Heaven knows it had been distracting him for long enough. 

He’d been prepared to fight his own desire, but he’d never imagined something like that, never imagined the beast could make such a face, such a sound against his neck. That mouth so soft and hot. He’d never expected to feel this hunger, faced with his demon’s appetites. Or this pride. 

The shudder of Sebastian’s warm body, and his grunt of savage pleasure.

Ciel crossed his legs uncomfortably.

The Stoics would have plenty to lecture him about control. Because the demon could not be controlled. There was no point to playing with collars. He was untameable; that was his very nature, the thing that shivered down Ciel’s spine. And the moment Sebastian became what his master wanted, he would cease to be anything that Ciel could desire.

Which meant, of course--oh inevitable ache of understanding--that he valued the demon’s wildness just as much as he relied on his obedience.

Ciel closed his eyes and breathed out. ‘ _The first rule_ ,’ he said aloud, ‘ _is to keep an untroubled spirit. The second is to look things in the face and know them for what they are_.’

He stood up, and his fingers found the book on the shelf beside him. Slim, paper-bound; a battered Latin textbook. The scribbled Phantomhive signature inside the front papers looked nothing like his own. 

And he settled back into his chair again, and tried not to drop shortbread crumbs between the pages as he read.

**************

When Sebastian returned with the plate of biscuits, the earl was reading a different book. This time it was a shabby school text, by the looks of it, and the demon glanced at his master as he set down the plate beside him. 

‘Indulging in the pleasures of Greek grammar, sir?’

‘Latin.’

‘Lucretius? His _Address to Venus_ has some rather salacious passages on--’

‘Marcus Aurelius,’ said the boy. ‘ _Remember that this day might be your last, and live accordingly._ ’

‘Fascinating.’

‘It is, yes.’ The boy put out his hand and took a biscuit without looking up. ‘How did you enjoy being dead this week?’

‘Not the most restful event of my existence, sir.’ Sebastian paused. ‘Not the worst, either.’ 

He waited. But the earl didn’t ask. A pity, too, because that was quite an entertaining tale.

‘Do you ever wish you could?’

Sebastian turned to look at his young master. The boy’s eyes were lowered, watching the steady coal-fire glow.

 _Could what, sir?_ But he didn’t need to ask.

‘Did you, young master?’

The boy didn’t answer. Perhaps he was ignoring the question. Or perhaps he was avoiding the memory.

Had he ever wished for death? That squalling little creature. On his bloodied knees in his cage. Filthy, screaming. Defiant.

‘Of course I did,’ the boy said eventually. ‘But I had other things to do first. There will be time enough for that.’

Sebastian turned to the fireplace and crouched, and began to stir up the coals in silence. Death was inevitable for every mortal. The young master must feel it waiting for him, the dark at the end of the tunnel.

But the child had always been extraordinary. Never had Sebastian seen a mortal so furiously alive, so utterly without hope, torn between life itself and the deep silent desire for dissolution. Walking into shadow with a resoluteness that only vivid life can bring. 

Not indifference: a bitter purpose.

Sebastian rubbed the greasy coal-dust between gloved thumb and finger.

He’d wanted the boy’s entirety, every scrap of him; he’d been quite sure of that. He’d wanted the boy’s submission. Something absolute. 

But the thing his master had given him in his attic bedroom was something more complex. The boy had responded softly. Like a flower under the wind. As he had beneath Sebastian’s kiss in the conservatory, and like that he was another creature altogether-- not the stiff strange little master permitting a servant’s lust. Like _that_ he was extraordinary.

‘This book.’ The boy was tapping the paper cover with one imperious finger. ‘I have a question.’

Sebastian reached for the coal scoop. ‘I have not read it, sir, and therefore it is possible--’

‘Is it the same book?’

‘My lord?’

‘It looks precisely the same. It feels the same.’ 

Sebastian heard the boy’s little inhale. _Yes, sir. It will smell the same, too._

‘The same book, you say?’

‘Don’t parrot me.’ 

But the boy was waiting, with his lashes downcast on his pale cheeks. Waiting as though the answer hardly mattered to him. 

Sebastian paused. And watched the oily flare of the fire around the fresh coal. 

He remembered the day. The night. He could feel it when he closed his eyes. The bitter wind whipping through his hair, tugging through his odd black coat. The stench of burning in his tender nostrils.

The boy, his new little master sobbing uselessly over in the fresh soil of the graves, and the demon had looked up at the ruined house. 

It was no fit place for a human child to inhabit.

He had already seen a glimpse of the boy’s past, absorbed in a quick sharp pain when he set his seal on his master’s eye. And he’d seen something more, unravelling desperately from the soul of the other child-- the spare whose taste still pulsed in his mouth-- he’d glimpsed the rest of the family, the delicate mother and fine arrogant father. The world viewed through a child’s eyes, bright toys and warm fireplaces and lollipops and paintboxes. 

The demon had seen this. And he could reconstruct the entire place from these memories, of course, but he would risk anomalies. There would be crucial details missing. And it would never do to conjure something from his own imagination: the result would be interesting, an interpretation of modern wealth, flavoured by his favourite human habitations-- a gothic pointed roof, a baroque extravagance to the garden-- but this wouldn’t suit the child. His master. The boy would require familiarity.

 _Once something is truly lost, one can never get it back._ The Earl of Phantomhive was free to hold his own opinion. Sebastian would never tell him the truth: _things_ cannot be lost; only aspects of a soul. 

The rest is only a matter of time.

And the demon had turned it, just a twist. A few weeks backwards. 

And then another little twitch; back before the flames had been set inside the house, before the screaming children had been dragged out of it.

The manipulation had cost him. But he could afford it, with the thrill of a fresh soul singing through his body. He hadn’t had to rebuild a thing. And now the house looked as it always had: complete, even to the scratches on the bannisters and the scent of its humans still permeating the air. It sat in an uneasy quiver of paradox that most mortals would never notice. A sensitive human might feel it, buzzing in their bones, but they wouldn’t understand its cause.

Did the boy ever sense it when he stood in his grand bedroom, in the place where his parents’ blood had stained the carpet? Or would stain it in another two days’ time, if time were free to move here. It is a complicated thing. 

‘Yes, young master,’ the demon said. ‘It is the same book.’

The boy was looking back at him. ‘Is it.’

This was unusual. And Sebastian waited, kneeling, the coal scoop poised in his fingers. 

Normally the earl addressed him as though he was some kind of a clever housepet, or ignored him, as though he was a chair or an umbrella stand or a particularly useful ornament. And the odd glances that flicked his way were usually disgusted, even while those unearthly blue eyes were desperate with desire. 

Occasionally there would be a flash of understanding between them, rare and refreshing, when a third person in the room was being particularly stupid. And of course the boy had an entire collection of purposeful silences which he appeared to wield as a punishment.

To look over at him, though. It wasn’t often that the boy stopped what he was doing and actually looked at him. Steady, blue. And here it was, twice in one day. 

‘The same book,’ the boy said finally. ‘Yes. That’s what I thought.’

************

Ciel returned to the library after dinner. He was tired of sitting at his desk, and retiring to bed this early was out of the question; it would look like an invitation. 

Sometimes his library chair felt like the only safe place.

Sebastian had been subdued while he served at the table this evening, but when the butler brought the tea up at half-past eight he appeared to be in a blazingly fine mood, which was both distracting and infuriating. No doubt it was the result of the attention being lavished on him by the staff downstairs; egotistical creature. 

‘Finny wanted to know if I had seen a glimpse of Heaven while I was dead. I was sorely tempted to invent something. He truly is charmingly innocent.’

Ciel turned a page. ‘I didn’t think it was innocence you enjoyed.’

‘It is not, sir.’ The demon flashed a glittering smile. ‘There is more flavour in corruption.’

‘It’s good to know it was worthwhile for you, then. My corruption.’ The words sat cold in Ciel’s throat. 

‘Very much so. The process has been quite rewarding.’ Sebastian paused, licking his lips with his pale pointed tongue. ‘I have managed many marvels in my time, but that is something in which I shall take pride.’

Ciel looked up. And folded his arms. ‘You can hardly take credit for anything. It was taken care of before you were ever bound to my service.’ 

He expected the demon to smirk, then.

But the demon paused. ‘You misunderstand me, young master. You appear to have an erroneous understanding of the nature of corruption.’

‘And you appear to believe this is yet another area where your expertise is greater than mine.’ 

‘Is that what you think?’

‘Are you questioning me?’

‘That isn’t what you think, young master. That is only what you feel.’

‘Oh?’ Ciel’s hands felt cold and he squeezed them into fists. ‘Go ahead. I insist, Sebastian. Explain to me the intricacies of human emotion.’

The butler did not reply immediately, as he filled the tea-cup and fiddled around with the spoon. 

At length he said, ‘I take it you are aware of germ theory, sir.’

‘Of course I bloody am, it’s the nineteenth century.’

‘The existence of microbes, and the unseen--’

‘I know,’ Ciel said. ‘What’s your point?’ He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know. The demon’s stories always held a bitter kernel. Like a peach; sweet flesh and poison heart. 

‘Perhaps you are not aware that some materials are less susceptible to decay than others. Honey, for instance. In the ancient villages of Iberia, which these days you would call--’

Ciel returned to his book. ‘I’m not in the mood for your rambling this evening.’ 

And most nights this would have been enough to sour the butler into leaving him in peace. 

Tonight it earned him comparative silence, at least, but Sebastian kept looking over at him. He felt it. Small glances like silver hailstones, cool down his back; impertinent curiosity. 

Ciel didn’t want to think about corruption.

And the demon was still evading him with these fitful moods, like the scud of cloud-shadow over the garden. Sebastian could embody a lie in every tone and movement. He chose his mood each moment, too quick for his master to ever keep up. 

And Ciel had observed the butler do this with the servants too; when a swift demand didn’t work, Sebastian slipped into cajoling. Teasing. And if that still had no effect he’d try something else-- sarcasm, or biting impatience. His manner was as slippery as his monstrous form. 

One day Ciel might manage to pin the creature down, as surely as Sebastian always seemed to find his centre and observe it. And observation is violation.

The demon had fallen silent in Ciel’s bed once, too distracted to speak. 

And the dog collar had been effective too. For as long as it was unexpected.

And the first time he’d ordered the beast to lie down on the floor here, in this very room--

But that time he’d been distracted himself. He hadn’t known what to expect. He hadn’t had the chance to observe.

‘Bard managed not to burn the onions this evening,’ Sebastian was saying. ‘Perhaps I ought to fake a funeral more often.’

‘How pleasant,’ said Ciel. ‘Remind me which of your achievements is being celebrated; the fact that you spent ninety-five pounds on white lilies and choir boys, or the fact that you aren’t dead yet?’

‘He even offered to bake me a cake.’

‘You would likely be the only animal on earth capable of surviving it.’

‘I declined, of course.’

‘Your humility has always been notable.’

‘Thank you, sir. Although if I were asked to choose my preferred indulgence, it would not be buttercream icing, sir.’

Ciel glanced up from his book. 

The demon’s eyes held an unmistakably filthy gleam.

He looked back down again. ‘Is _that_ what you want.’ 

‘If you would be so kind, sir.’

The heat was mounting over his chest. ‘I wasn't offering. And you haven’t yet made a formal demand.’

‘It isn’t yet Monday morning.’

Which meant another day of this stupidity. Waiting for a piece of bloody chocolate cake and enduring the demon’s needling while the delay only increased the perceived value of the outcome. 

Ciel sighed. He should never have allowed significance to rest in a bargain he hadn’t devised himself. 

A Stoic would endure the teasing without difficulty. _Be the rock unmoved by the raging surf, until the ocean is tamed around it._ The demon would mock him for that-- but then again, the demon was no Stoic; Sebastian was the ocean, and not the rock.

Ciel sat up straight. 

Marcus Aurelius had been correct. Of course. In this as in many things; and so had Machiavelli: one’s enemy will build their strategies around a demand. Their plans will be based upon achieving it. 

And the best path to victory is to give it freely. Without theatrics. Without demanding mercy. Giving no hint of the thing’s value. Simple. 

Ciel closed his book. And he stood slowly, brushing off his coat. 

He pointed back at his armchair. ‘Sit down.’

The butler’s hot gaze was steady, but he raised his brows. ‘Young master--’

‘Sit in the chair, Sebastian.’

Sebastian tugged at the wrist of his glove. And he swept aside the tails of his coat and seated himself. Glancing up at Ciel, his pale face composed impassively. 

And that looked wrong, for a start. A servant sitting in his master’s presence. But this would be the easiest way.

Ciel carried over a cushion from the velvet sofa and placed it in front of the chair. Ignoring the flush of heat under his collar.

And then. 

‘Unbutton.’

The butler’s lips twitched. His gloved fingers flicked slowly down the pewter buttons, undoing the long flies of his black trousers. He spread them open, untucking himself, and his softened cock was a fat slink of flesh under his own hand. 

And Sebastian settled his knees apart.

But Ciel was not going to be intimidated this evening.

He knelt down, shuffling his knees into the soft cushion. 

The demon’s eyes were narrowed as though he didn’t quite believe it yet. Hard, dark-lashed. ‘Your dedication to your dessert menu is delightfully serious, young master.’

‘Damn the dessert,’ said Ciel. ‘I can order you to make me chocolate cake whatever I want it. If you’re stupid enough to require an order.’

Sebastian didn’t answer. 

‘I simply concluded that your insistence is tiresome. You’re beginning to sound desperate.’ 

Ciel didn’t look up at his servant as he took the thing in his hand. 

Simple. Nothing he hadn’t done before. 

The warm shaft twitched in his fingers. 

He gave it an experimental squeeze and heard a sharp exhale from above him. And it was noticeable now, the heavy animal scent of the demon’s body.

Ciel bit his lip. The heat surged damply behind his knees. 

He bent. And licked the tip quickly. And closed his eyes, enfolding it carefully.

The demon was silent but he felt the sudden tensing of the creature’s body.

A velvety gather of flesh in his mouth. Delicate skin. 

‘Young master.’ The demon sighed. Luxuriating. ‘Your mouth is quite delectably warm.’

The bastard. Ciel pulled his head away to growl. ‘Are you going to _talk_?’

‘My silence was not part of negotiations.’ Sebastian’s thumb touched his chin. ‘Whereas yours, of necessity, is quite assured.’ 

Ciel knocked the demon’s hand away, his cheeks hot. And this time he held the shaft tighter, low at the base, and it was soft enough to take it between his lips. Half in, and he pressed his tongue against it. Working his mouth over the head, the taste aching in his throat. Down his legs.

Not as bad as he remembered, and this might be manageable after all. 

The butler’s foot shifted on the rug beside him and he knew his servant wanted it. Wanted more. Wanting is always a kind of weakness. The Stoics can tell you that. 

There was too much to consider at once, and he wished he could watch the demon’s face. But if he raised his eyes he’d be distracted from the cock in his hands, the way it thickened as he held it. As he licked it. And the wet sounds of his mouth felt too loud in the room, with the fire’s low hiss and the sudden abruptness of the clock’s tick. And tick. And tick.

Ciel paused, breathing deeply, and glanced up towards the mantelpiece where the clock sat, a gilt glitter. It had not been long. 

And the demon’s cock was hard, arching against his hands. Ciel tugged slowly, and the hood rolled back to show the plump head underneath, slick and clean and petal-red.

The tip was dense, soft. Slippery beneath his tongue. How curious. He pulled his mouth from it to press with one experimental thumb, circling slowly. Around the slit. Against it.

‘Good grief,’ muttered Sebastian.

Ciel licked slowly up the shaft. His chin was wet.

And the thing had stiffened, too long to fit properly now. He had to stop, wiping his sleeve over his mouth, and consider. Just the end, then. The slippery rounded head against his tongue, and both hands sliding. 

His grip was leaving pale marks over the dark-flushed shaft. 

The demon’s touch was soft, stroking his hair. Then tangling through it. Slow fingers, rubbing down his neck.

‘Oh, hungry small thing.’ The low voice. ‘What a pretty thing to watch. My noble little master servicing me with _such_ obedience--’

Ciel bit down slowly, tightening his jaw. His teeth grazed the shaft.

And then he pulled away to speak. ‘Don’t touch me while I do this.’

Sebastian huffed. ‘Very well, my lord.’ Lingering emphasis on that last word. 

Ciel ran his fingertips down the swell of the long vein. And tightened both hands again, a sliding movement. If he considered this. If he approached this scientifically. Rhythm, and the careful application of his tongue. 

Like this. Like this?

He raised his eyes, and found the demon watching him. Keen, dark. Heavy-lidded.

Satisfied. 

And some look Ciel had never seen before, behind that tight small smile. He’d seen it in other men’s faces though. Across a business desk. Over the barrel of a pistol. Uncertainty?

The demon was immortal. He would have stores of strength that Ciel could not calculate. But he was capable of experiencing pain and rage and hunger; and impatience, and doubt, and pleasure. It was enough.

‘Delicious,’ whispered the demon. The warm fingers curled into his hair. Guiding.

‘If you touch me again,’ said Ciel, ‘I’ll stop.’

Sebastian blinked.

‘I’ll walk out. Yes?’

The demon’s mouth twisted sourly. ‘As it pleases you, my lord. I have no intention of stopping you.’ Sharply, in case he hadn’t understood the jibe. ‘Hell knows you need the practise.’

Ciel didn’t even raise his eyes this time. The creature’s cock was swollen in his grip, and Sebastian hadn’t said _this doesn’t feel good._

The beast couldn’t lie, after all.

He went slowly. His only possible strategy if he wanted the demon to tire before he did. And his jaw ached already. His fists were slippery. He was making a mess. He moved his mouth down the side of the shaft, slow soft bites, sucking.

It wasn’t difficult. This is what he would want, if it was his body. 

He took in the tip again. And this time there was a tang of salt in his mouth, and when he pulled away he saw it gleaming through the slick of his own spit; a bead of liquid swelling at the slit. He suckled at it. 

And raised his head to look up at the demon. 

Sebastian shivered. And his fine mouth twisted into that wretched smirk of his. ‘Are you enjoying yourself?’

Ciel did not reply. He resumed. 

‘Insatiable child.’ The demon sighed. It might have been a breath of laughter. ‘If I’d known I only had to ask--’ He pushed his gloved hand down between Ciel’s, grasping himself. A hard grip.

Ciel pushed the hand away and saw it settle on the chair-arm near his head. 

‘ _Would_ I have had to ask, sir? I think you like this.’

There was no point in answering. 

‘You pursue your own torment as fiercely as you chase your pleasures, young master.’ The demon shifted, rolling his hips. ‘Do you even know the difference?’

The heavy cock pushed hard into his throat. 

Ciel pressed his nails in.

And Sebastian made a low growling noise. ‘Your nature betrays you. Carnal. Animal.’

This was true. Truth cannot hurt you if you’ve already figured it out.

‘You perfect whore.’ The demon was talking too much. That was a good sign. ‘Take the whole thing. If it isn’t too much for your little mouth.’

Ciel slid his hand lower, down the shaft to the dark hair, the softness of the sac tucked inside the demon’s trousers, and he curled in his fingertips. Stroking. 

‘Enough,’ Sebastian said. 

Ciel slid the thing out of his mouth. ‘Not finished yet.’

‘I plan to finish elsewhere.’ 

‘A servant does not have desires. He only fulfils them,’ said Ciel, and bent to suck again.

‘You take pleasure in debasing yourself. I’m surprised, sir. That you would enjoy this. I am aware that you find it-- _unpleasant_ \-- having things pushed down your throat.’ 

The demon’s gaze held an ugly flatness.

Ciel closed his eyes briefly. Of course the beast was aware. Sebastian knew too much.

He’d expected this too. He squeezed very slowly.

‘Enough,’ said Sebastian. Uncommonly raw this time, his voice. 

Ciel ignored him.

‘When I finish--’ Low. ‘You don’t intend to take it all in your mouth. _Hm_ \--surely.’ 

Did he expect a reply?

‘You mean to swallow? _Nhn_ \--’

Ciel pushed the tip of his tongue into the slit. Hot salt. 

‘ _Ah_ \--’ 

Now Sebastian was silent, and that was an even better sign. 

Ciel glanced up again, and the demon’s lips were pressed tight. The dark hair at his temples looked damp.

All things come down to patience, in the end. No matter how immortal you are.

How long had it felt to the demon?

He watched his servant’s face. The flickering details of it; the tension in the corner of his lips. The flex of the thin nostrils. 

And the demon’s hands. One curled at his mouth, one on his thigh. Gripping.

‘You may stop,’ said Sebastian. ‘ _Now_. I’m going to fuck you--’ short breath-- ‘until you’re sorry. You impertinent piece of--’ Pause. Grunting. Softly.

Ciel squeezed tight at the thickened base and pulled his lips away. ‘No,’ he said, ‘I don’t think so.’

He took the head between his lips again. And released his fingers and this time he pumped the demon’s cock. Sharp, hard. Continuous.

Sebastian’s eyes glistened. He gripped the back of the seat behind him. His thigh quivered against Ciel’s shoulder.

He made a small noise. High and tight.

And the shaft twitched in Ciel’s grip, a pulse between his lips, and it flooded his tongue. Hotter than he’d expected, a salty wet mouthful, bitter and silky. Metallic like the tang of copper coins. 

Ciel waited, his throat tight, still squeezing the cock in his grip. Slowly. Too hard, probably, because Sebastian hissed and bumped one knee against his arm and Ciel let go, let the softening shaft slide from his mouth and he could swallow the mouthful of mess if he wanted to. His throat burned. He could do it in one gulp. And the surge of heat rose up in his chest and he shuddered.

He bent and spat. Not quite retching. A splash on the carpet between the demon’s polished shoes.

And he sat back on his heels and wiped his mouth and ran his tongue along his teeth.

The demon was watching him. Dark-eyed. His face too tense again already. ‘About time you learned to put your greedy mouth to good use, sir.’

This is the point where Sebastian would smile, if he’d done this to Ciel.

Ciel didn’t smile. He only raised his brows a fraction. 

Sebastian blinked. He shifted in the armchair, moving to button up his trousers. And then the butler was pulling out his pocket-watch and snapping open the cover, and winding the little lever. Winding his watch. He was silent. He didn’t even look over at Ciel properly, and Ciel felt a flutter in his throat. 

The butler was too quiet; he had no ready words. Hadn’t prepared any. 

Hadn’t planned this, oh, not at _all,_ and Ciel’s hands were hot and damp at his sides. If the demon had done something he hadn’t planned for, it meant--

Ciel didn’t know what it meant. The idea his butler might have been caught unready made his belly uneasy. It fired his blood.

He’d regained something, some power. Sebastian would know that. 

Let him know it. Let him think this was for power.

Of course it was for power.

Ciel got to his feet stiffly, wiping his palms on his jacket. His head was spinning. His arousal throbbed tightly in his shorts.

‘I am going up to bed,’ he said. ‘I have no further need of you this evening.’

Ciel's heels thumped on the wooden staircase. and it echoed like a headache. He was more tired than he’d realised. But he felt quite calm. The tight discomfort of his heated body throbbed somewhere but he held it at a distance. The calm of the Stoics and the cunning of Machiavelli; this would be useful to remember.

He closed his bedroom door behind him. And turned on the light in his dressing room. 

And it was slow, but he managed; shoes, stockings. Dropped onto the floor. Jacket. Vest.

He got through two shirt buttons, fumbling, and then just tugged the whole thing off over his head. One of the collar-studs pinged off the side-table and rolled under the armchair. He ignored it.

He knew where the nightgowns were kept on their shelf, a clean pressed stack that smelled of lavender. He pulled one out and shook it.

He caught his reflection in the long gilt mirror; a boy in blue woollen shorts. Bare narrow chest. Small, frowning, looking like somebody else, and he turned away again. 

He shivered briefly. 

And he kicked off his shorts, and pulled the nightgown on, and went to bed.

  
  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the next chapter will actually be the last.  
> I hope you enjoyed this one! 
> 
> I will leave you with a note from the artist:
> 
> "pp!!!!!!!!" - hom 15/02/2021
> 
> until next time-- March 13 or thereabouts-- be good, and eat your carrots...


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